
Class 
Book. 






(jommwJ^Q^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Notes from 
Nature's Lyre 



By ^ 
Howard Beck Reed 



9 ? 
-^ 



r 



> 



G. P. Putnam's Sons 
?rbc IRnicfterbocfter ipress 
New York and London 

1903 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

APR 2 1*^03 

Copyright Entry 

a. 

COPY B. 



CLASS 



XXc No. 



=Ji 



76 3^3 r 



) r, A ■:^ 



Copyright, 1903 

BY 

HOWARD BECK REED 



Published, March, 1903 



Ube fintcfterbocfter press, l^ew Ifforh 



DEDICATION 

"Xl/HOM better, dearest, could I dedicate 

These verses to 
Than you, who from my earliest date 

The longing drew , 

To thank you for that patient love and 
sweet, 
Uplifting me 
To higher, higher spheres, to be more meet 
For loving thee? 

One day I, dearest, plucked for you 

A bunch of heather-bells. 
But, looking, found them wet with dew. 
I feared they were not fit to give. 
You said it was the damp that made them 
live. 

Those drops from sorrow's wells. 

These simple songs in love I made 

A tribute small for you. 
But unAvept memories soon will fade. 
And true I found these wet with tears. 



iv Dedication 

You took them, praised them, sweetly 
smoothed my fears 
And dried my teared eyes too. 

Take, I know thou wilt never chide, 

'T is not like thee ; 
But open arms with mother's pride 
These beggared, plaintive poems bide 

As thou dost me. 

And all I am or e'er will be 

I owe to thee. 
Who if my heart sometimes must weep 
Woulds't give thy life those tears to keep! 

They 're not from thee, 

MY MOTHER. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Introduction xi 

•Invocation of the Muses i 

Inspiration 3 

Invitation to Nature-Study .... 7 

SeNorita Juana 13 

SEASONS 

Lay to the West Wind 47 

A Restless Summer Evening .... 50 

Winter 52 

The Breaking of the Buds 53 

The Christmas Tree 55 

Prophecies of Spring 57 

My Flocks 58 

Frost 60 

'T is Time the Thrush Travels Home . . 62 

The Grasshoppers 64 

The Firefly 66 

The Broken Bough's Lament .... 68 

My Valentine 73 

The Laborer's Song 75 

New Year's Eve 77 

A Dull Day 78 

A Summer Shower 80 

A Prisoner 82 

A Butterfly 84 

Y 



vi Contents 



SCATTERED PETALS 

PAGB 

The Speechless Sermon 89 

Music 95 

The Devon Coast 97 

The Sailor's Story 99 

The Tale of Tawah 102 

An Indian Saga of the Mound-Builders , . 108 

Alieni Temporis Flores 112 

Only a White Rose 119 

A Song of the South 121 

The Charm of the Brook ..... 123 

Dying Dannie 125 

The Atlantic 128 

Shakespeare 131 

Hidden Sorrow 133 

A Painting by a Friend 136 

Simple Worship 138 

At Twilight 140 

The Amolba 141 

The Whip-Poor-Will ...... 142 

The Hills of Clifton, England .... 144 

Ecclesiastes XL, i 146 

The Physician 147 

On the River 148 

A Windy Day 150 

Our Martyred Statesman 151 

Lord, Give us Cheer 154 

A Nature Paradox 155 

'T IS Profitable 156 

The Hermit-Thrush 157 

Victoria 159 

Longfellow i6o 

The Forest Fire 162 

A Text for Thought 165 



Contents vii 

PAGE 

The Cynic i66 

Speaking i68 

Louis J. Agassiz .170 

Lost in the Woods 172 

The Violin 173 

Mandolin Memories 177 

Sleeping Beauty on the Lake .... 179 
The Storm near the Cornish Coast . . .181 

The Sargossa Sea 182 

This Bab-el- Mandeb 183 

Forget-me-not 184 

Zoology 186 

The Match Boy 188 

The Wreck 191 

The Heavenly Soldier's Hope .... 193 

A Tragedy 194 

" Meditation, Day AND Night" . . . . 196 

Despair Not 197 

Eulogy 198 

The Saracen to his Sword 200 

The Mexican Maid 201 

The Meeting-House 203 

Dreams 206 

Hidden Beauty 208 

Boating Song 209 

Nature's Own Nation 210 

Prayer 212 

The Ocean OF Life 213 

The Happy Dead 215 

Unloved 217 

Geologic Man 220 

I Love Him Yet 222 

To Love 223 

My Mother 224 

Roman Relics in England 225 



viii Contents 

'~~~~"~~~~~~~' PAGE 

Father 228 

A Stone from Solomon's Temple .... 229 

Autobiography of a Piece of Coal . . 232 

A Name 235 

Voices 236 



SONNETS 

Friendship 239 

Futurity 244 

Westminster Abbey 247 

Children 248 

Woman 249 

Milton 250 

Farewell 253 

What a Poem is 255 

Fickle Gold 256 

A Glimpse of Paradise but Breeds Desire , 257 

"The Sparrow" 258 

Yesterday and To-morrow 259 

Wales 262 

France 263 

Life 264 

Dante 265 

Botany 266 

Melancholy 267 

The Ant 269 

My Books 270 

Solitude 271 

Ben Nevis, Scotland 272 

My Jonathan 273 

The Farmer 274 

The Wistaria 275 

My Moods , 276 



Contents 



IX 



FROM THE KETTLE ON THE CRANE p^^,^ 
From the Kettle on the Crane .... 281 



When Pussy Purrs 

The Phonograph . 

An Old Man's Musings 

My Enlisting 

The Family Clock 

Wait 

Reading 

Twilight on the Farm 

Why? . 

Ignorant Emigration 



284 
286 
288 
290 
291 
293 
295 
297 
300 
303 



JOTS FOR LITTLE TOTS 

Babyland 307 

The Bumble-Bees' Song 309 

A Children's Surprise Party .... 310 

What Baby Saw 312 

Lullaby 313 

My Work is Done 315 

Baby and the Caterpillar 317 

Baby's Sky 319 

The Motherless Doll 321 

Fly Away Home 323 

The Home of the Thrush 324 

TRIFLES 

Epitaph to my Verses 329 

Our Inheritance 330 

The Shears of Atropos 331 

My Fireplace 332 

Sambo's Troubles 333 

The Literature of the Sea-Beach . . . 335 

Logarithms 337 

Ode to John Jones ..,,.. 338 



M 



INTRODUCTION 

ANKIND owes an inestimable debt to 
God for His terrestrial gifts which sur- 
round us, as well as for His heavenly ones 
which are to come. In the preparation for 
the enjoying of the future ones the logical 
way is to notice and appreciate those which 
now exist. It is not well for even the most 
ambitious to overlook in scorn the caterpillar 
of earthly graces while putting forth his ut- 
most efforts in attempting to grasp the flee- 
ing butterfly of the future. The one is the 
gradual development of the other, and that 
which has grown slowly is generally more 
perfectly formed than that which has devel- 
oped quickly. But aside from its obligatory 
character — and man is rarely inclined to meet 
an obligation — there is a something innate in 
every one that prompts a study of nature, 
an irresistible drawing toward the beauty and 
wonderfulness of creation. And if a man so 
neglect this incentive as to give the natural 
beauties of his home but a cursory glance. 



xii Introduction 



he misses one half that which this life holds 
in store for him. We have used appreciation 
and study as synonymous terms, and are 
they not nearly so? What can we under- 
stand fully enough to give it proper value 
unless we study it part by part until we un- 
derstand every component? And study with 
this aim in view is not irksome, it is more a 
recreation than a work. On the other hand, 
what can we study unless we have enough 
appreciation of its worth to add interest and 
to overcome its apparent homeliness? 

What do we understand by this nature- 
study? Is it to become, like Timon of Ath- 
ens, an anchorite and bury oneself from the 
world? Not at all; it simply means an open 
eye and a retentive mind while passing 
through that strip of wood, or a listening ear 
eager for the song of the robin or the thrush 
as we in the transaction of our business pass 
along some country road. There is no need 
of deposing the grand sentiment of sociology 
and becoming a recluse. Unconditional 
solitude is but for the shipwrecked sailor or 
the misanthropist. For the latter we feel a 
hearty sympathy, who, disdaining all social 
pleasures, keeps company but with himself, 
and that self is sufficient cause to make him 



Introduction xiil 



sick of the world. We mean one who when- 
ever the chance is given puts himself in 
touch with the unartificial world. 

But not wishing to weary you with a 
thesis from a prejudiced mind, let us briefly 
review a few blessings that nature-study 
gives us. In the alembic of the free woods 
all base metals of character are changed into 
the pure gold of noble living. And this 
effect, gained from being in the great forest, 
is similarly found in that small clump of 
trees, perhaps your only available glimpse of 
nature. Nearly the same birds have their 
choir-stand there, and certainly the same rule 
governs the growing of the flowers and the 
trees. And even if it be but a potted plant 
in your window, there is material for your 
natural study. In the forest there seems to 
be a certain element which city air has not ; 
one feels his heart throb with inspiration 
and joy; he is practically a new man. And 
not only is there a marked exuberance of 
spirits, but he feels himself literally elevated 
in his very being. His heart grows tender 
toward humanity in general. Many a dis- 
honorable business scheme has been discoun- 
tenanced and forestalled during an outing 
in the woods; it is no place for unseemly 



xiv Introduction 



thoughts and we are almost awed if they en- 
croach upon our attention. And this broth- 
erly love is not fleeting; the man who pays 
most attention to the non-dissembling side 
of the world seems to possess the greatest 
quantity of this homely but valued quality. 
All the virtues might be shown to grow in 
the same way from nature-study, but we 
think it sufficient to mention only this one; 
for of all the commandments, "Love thy 
neighbor" is the most important, with the 
exception of the first, and to that we shall 
for a moment direct our attention. 

Not only does this appreciative study 
elevate us morally, but spiritually are we 
lifted in wonder from Nature to Nature's 
God. For that should be the object of all 
study. There has never been a thinker who 
has brought the motives of the actions of 
objects, whether in the inanimate or animate 
world, to a tangible form. All phenomena 
can be traced to a certain point and there 
our discernment fails us. Therefore is it 
a perfectly natural result and one that is 
compatible with the character of even the 
most practical scientist to leave the research 
as completed and refer the cause of the phe- 
nomena under question to the Maker. And 



Introduction xv 



is it not a sufficient incentive to nature- 
study, when man declares that he is finite 
and lacking in knowledge, but God infinite 
and omniscient? And everywhere we seem 
to hear from Nature the psalms of praise to 
the Creator, and from every twig and every 
blade, every mount and every glade, we 
seem to hear those dear words of exhortation 
spoken by our Maker and drawn from Na- 
ture, "Flee as a bird to your mountain." 

Howard Beck Reed. 



INVOCATION OF THE MUSES 

/~\ MUSE, lend me thy tuneful lyre, 
^-^ Save me a single string of fire 
From harp you kindly gave, entire, 
To him who wrought "The Thoughtful 

Man" 
And others of a kin. Inspire 
One little line to live so long 
As marvellous fame of forenamed song. 
That wisdom shrinks a wondrous wealth 
Within a space so small. If mind 
Can't catch from one of Nine by stealth 
A single song, canst thou not find 
A Tenth I pray, Pierides? 
And dub her Mea as a name 
With Latin meaning meant. The same 
Initiate my pensive pen 
With Nature's notes, that I 'mong men 
May bear the joy-emburdened hymn 
Thou teachest tuneful thrush and lark; 
That I may show to others Him, 
And lifting from the blinding dark, 



Invocation of the Muses 



Point through transparent Nature-veil 
Where God, Creator, sits as did 
At first, while watching power prevail. 
The Master Mind pronounced it good. 
He shaped the whirling wings of fire, 
And flung the floods to quench that fire; 
Triumphant taught the watery tide 
Respect, and bade retire to rest 
In place apart. There, raging wide, 
Sore piqued to see the lording land 
Uplift its head above their waves, 
Twice, thrice, victorious warfare planned. 
A long time Earth and Sea now strive 
At hide-and-seek. Till God from place 
Of watching other planets form. 
To please gave each allotted space. 
Erato, Clio, now inform 
My mind with art, and power bequeath. 
In songs the faithful fragrance breathe 
That winds waft wastefully from the flowers 
And trace my page with tree that towers 
Above the wealthy wood. So paint 
My work that many raptured seek 
From mirrored image mine, though faint 
The beauties, copied made so weak. 



INSPIRATION 

A LONG the banks of bubbling brooks 
*^ I wander, while my searching eye 
Is bent discussing green-knoUed nooks 
Or silver-shining streams, that fly 
Before mine eye in endless chain. 
As scroll slips through, in thinking skein 
With wire-born words, the Ticker wise ; 
Improved child of telegraph. 
Where Nature in repose e'er lies, — 
The black Piceus * ploughs his path, 
Distastefully flings from armored back 
The water scarce his sphere. The track 
Of thirsty deer and wildcat 's here. 

What thoughts are these in love so clear 

But to expression tightly bound? 

O Muses! make a magic force 

To turn my thought to meaning sound, 

Convert my words, so tiring hoarse, 

' Hydropheus piceus, — a large beetle that dwells in the 
water but is a very clumsy swimmer. It does seem as 
though it was not intended for an aquatic insect. 

3 



4 Inspiration 

To music sweet and clear. Each eve 

Of summer brings to me a breeze, 

With notes that sweet sonatas weave 

On delicate keys, the leaves of trees. 

Each eve of winter howls the wind 

When unwonted opposition 's lined 

In antique-fashioned fireplace grim, 

It noisily climbs the chimney's side 

With wrathful whispers or howls of pain 

As driven back by heat inside ; 

Then fitfully flings itself in rage 

Upon the shadow of the fire 

Reflected on the window-pane. They bring 

Not lines as from a Lydian lyre, 

But rugged pibroch of Scotland sing. 

As comrades in a war are drawn 

To closer love from common risk 

And perils shared, the fire and I 

Grow dearer friends and oftener seek 

Each other's company. Birds fly. 

As legend-like with naughty tales 

To mother's ears, to me with news; 

With news that never fails. 

I love to read this simple ruse: 

They bring within their bills a sign, 

A whisp of hay, a twig of vine. 

A stem that 's not outgrown its green 

Brings the tidings of the spring, 



Inspiration 5 

And birds that South have wintering been, 

And now search stuff for home-building. 

But stem of age that 's burnished brown, 

Lost from their beaks comes fluttering down. 

In silence heralds the new-mown hay, 

The reaping-reign of autumn day. 

The moon when bathing all in light 

Bright argent-hued, or mufTed in mist, 

Or blanketed from Terra's sight 

With banks of choking clouds. Dismissed 

From Earth yet starry-coronet crowned. 

In double form the queen of night. 

Does Cassiopeia gather round 

A retinue, displacing her 

Oft given the regal-rule of night. 

But both bow down with obeisance due 

At my imagination's throne. 

From godly power in mercy loan 

The themes that hold in tenure tight 

Attention of my inmost soul, 

Unable quite though wish would write. 

From God's creation as a whole 

Moves most mysterious force, so full 

Of messages unseen, unheard. 

Must e'en unwritten be. Our furred 

And feathered friends know when to nest, 

And when to seek securer seats. 

And when to 'scape the storm that 's dressed 



6 Inspiration 

Not yet within its wrecking winds. 
Yet busy man knows naught to do 
Or how 't is done. Nor can construe 
The thrills that Nature e'er inspires, 
As wisdom-waiting world inquires. 
When summer zephyrs softly sigh, 
Or winter's roaring wind blows high, 
Minerva, goddess of the mind 
And, too, by many more enshrined 
Of Science, poesy, and arts, 
Give power to stay the force that starts 
With minute moves my sluggish mind. 
My faculties, let Nature find 
Attentive as the crowd that heard 
Italian Zeno wise propound 
His master's thought, Parmenides. 
With zeal let all my Life be crowned 
Translating Nature-mysteries. 



INVITATION TO NATURE-STUDY 

MATURE pleadingly calls from her beau- 
^ tiful bowers, 

From her sweetly entrancing schools, 
Where the pens are the sunbeams, and the 
books are the flowers. 

And her ink stands as rain in the pools. 

All the year, as she calls for more pupils, she 
paints 
Pretty pictures on each flowery page ; 
To seduce to her school those whose interest 
is cool. 
And to give us who love her our wage. 

By the sweetest refrains of the birds she 
invites. 
By the singing of stream and of brook, 
And the stars, the entrancing play-suns of the 
nights, 
Are prospectus, she asks you to look. 
7 



8 Invitation to Nature-Study 

When the winter's cold session is on there 's 
the snow, — 
Cotton-plant of the sky, dropping leaves, 
Holding pentagram marvels whose tale you 
should know. 
And the tree-covering carpet of wonder 
it weaves : — 

When the streamlets are guarded by glass 

window-panes, 
Where they shivering wait for the rains ; 
But they 're happy, so happy they cannot 

forget, 
Though asleep, Nature 's guarding them 

yet. 

'T is in winter, enthroned o'er the scenery 
sublime 
In her grandest attire. Nature reigns ; 
As she audience gives, in this stern, courtly 
time, 
With dew-jewels they construct for her 
fanes. 

Beauty's fanes that are formed by the 
feathery snow-flakes. 
That, reflecting the light, look like minia- 
ture moons; 



Invitation to Nature-Study 9 

In their flight through the kingdom of stars 
each one takes 
Of star-form and starlight. Where are 
lovelier festoons? 

Then there 's spring, when the winter is 

wearing away, 
When the sunbeams awake for their play ; 
And they knock on that tiny brown cell 

'neath the fence, 
Where all winter it clung for defense. 

Soon a hole 's in it seen, then a head slow 
appears. 
That is followed by legs and four wings. 
Have the sunbeams made true the Greek- 
storied Sun-Gods? 
Is 't a child of Apollo with too many 
wings? 

And the wings it unwraps, they are wet, I 
believe ; 
Have the sunbeams it brought on their 
waves? 
For we 're told that the light from the sun, 
like a sea 
Travels down to the earth washed by 
waves. 



lo Invitation to Nature-Study 

'T is a moth, he 's forerunner of millions to 
come, 
And the bees with their heart-happy hum 
Join in song with the moths, though the 
latter are dumb, 
'T is a truth, there are hymns oft from 
mouths that are mum. 

All the trees, tired of garments of white, 
dress in green ; 
On the branch where the snow-buds have 
been 
And have burst into leaves, if we search, 
may be seen 
Many birds both of blue, and of red, and 
of green. 

Now the spring is of summer the plan — not 
matured — 
Nature 's setting the scene for the act 
That contains her best thought, the most 
interesting part. 
Through the luring of spring thus she 
wins us by tact. 

On the stage of the summer she shows us 
results 
Of the laboring year that is flown ; 



Invitation to Nature-Study n 

And creation with friends, Nature's pupils, 
exults 
At the progress of work that is shown. 

In her temples of oak and of pine and of 

beech 
Gives her baccalaureate speech, 
" And a choir of sweet voices invisible sings 
The class ode of the birds and the springs. 

In the autumn we leave our school tasks in 

the past, 
And enter in business at last ; 
With the lessons we 've learned in the seasons 

of toil 
To harvest the fruits of our soil. 

Won't you come to this sweetly entrancing 
school 
From the city and stifling crowd, 
To the far-reaching woods so refreshing and 
cool, 
And where wandering is ever allowed? 

See, it 's teeming with wonders that cannot 
be told! 
Just a glance and she charms with her 
power, 



12 Invitation to Nature-Study 

As each moment new-founded mysteries 
unfold 
That hypnotic smooth over many an 
hour. 

Come, view what He has given, 

The beauteous gifts of God. 
All joy is not for Heaven 

And the earth for chastening rod, 
For Nature 's beauty-clad 

And smiling with happiness. 
Yes, she will make you glad, 

While the Maker, He will bless. 



SENORITA JUANA 

CANTO I. 

"T" WAS twilight time, when day and 

night contend 
On even terms for darkness or for light, 
And struggling softly, silently, they 

lend 
Vistas of brightness overtrimmed with 

night. 
As clinging cloudlets cluster round the 

sky 
Peep out from the dark when a storm 

is nigh. 

Thus at the close of a hot, hot day 
Soft steeped in the shadows Mitla lay, 
A spot in the drear plain's dry waste 
lO. Where Oaxaca's road, as the story 

reads. 
To the old Cortez-conceived city leads. 
This Aztec temple, pre-pyramid born, 
Now stands of all its former beauty 

shorn, 

13 



14 Senorita Juana 

A shapely pile of walls and pillars hoar 

That dreams of Past but hears its song 
no more; 

A meteor from the distant heights of 
Past 

That, rushing through its friction, finds 
at last 

A cool and restful refuge from all strife, 

Bathed in all peace since now it 's lived 
its life. 
20. Against a mossy pillar, moonbeam lit. 

As graceful as on the flowers serene 

The azure Asteriee sweets-sipping sit, 

A Mexican maid does listening lean. 

Brushes 'way the hair that, jet black, 

Unfettered, pads the hard supporting- 
back. 

Thus clears to view the faultless fore- 
head broad, 

Subtends the dreamy, drinking eyes, 
now awed 

By the holy place, in sleeping silence 
bathed. 

And the red lips so delicately lathed 
30. That with two trickling tears were 
bathed, 

Quivering, bespoke the fear she felt 
unshown. 



Senorita Juana 15 

At last an approaching footstep heard, 
And a figure stepped where the moon- 

Hght shone, 
And " Juana, Juana, " gently called, 

she heard. 
She moved to meet him with motion 

as light 
As a fourth-year osier by breeze is bent. 
Love's greeting past, he speaks in voice 

so slight 
She closer clings to catch the word, 

silent. 
Attentive, as only from Love's lexicon 

is learnt. 
40. "Before the sun o'er Orizaba's peak 
Doth climb leave I, my fortune, yours, 

to seek. 
(Sweet Juana, how can I from thee 

depart. 
The nearest and the dearest to my 

heart ?) 
The dangers of the wilds have I to 

meet ; 
May the Holy Mother guide my feet ! 
But the padre" — dark flashed his angry 

eye — 
"Hath driven me from the nest to live 

or die, 



1 6 Senorita Juana 

He cares not. My folks forbade me to 

come 
Or be seen near yours, near Juana's 

home. 
50. But when I rich in gold and honor am, 
Answer they all to Leon de Tamat- 

quam." 
Darker came his eye and knowing laid 

his hand 
On jewelled hilt, in belt the richest in 

the land. 
"Leon, must you really so soon de- 
part ? ' ' 
Asked she with tearful eye and heavy 

heart. 
"Why shouldst thou go at all, Leon, 

from home, 
Through barbarous lands and countless 

dangers roam ? 
Why not the padre, who bades for 

best, please 
And marry the wealthy Donna Du- 

quese? " 
60. Her lips lisped "Yes," but her heart 

heard "No." 
"Seflorita! " 
" 'T is best, Leon, for us to part I 

know, 



Senorita Juana 17 

For I a simple market maid at best, 
And you a prince, so Fate hath formed 

our nest. 
I know thou lovest me well and that to 

part 
Would mar your future, hide your 

happiness. 
List, Leon, how strange seems this 

truth untold : 
That if we love, with love whose great 

deepness 
To our unthinking friends cannot be 

seen 
70. They think that we but for a moment 

lean, 
And 'tween our aching hearts a hand 

they thrust 
And then that we forget it soon they 

trust; 
Little aware that we for hence are dead 
As we have lost Life's little golden 

thread. 
Ah, may the Lord forgive for lives 

they took ; 
What thinkest thou, Caro, must a part- 
ing look 
We take and go our separate ways 

alone? 



1 8 Senorita Juana 

Let love not speak but thought for it 

atone. 
For oft we must an act for duty do 
80. That is adverse and may for us bring 

rue." 
He answered not, but took her in his 

arms, 
Where she her brave words soon for- 
got ; in arms 
She nestled and never a word was 

passed, 
But in such times a look has meaning 

vast. 
Then softly disengaged his hold and 

spoke : 
"Mia Carissima, I must now fly 
As does the downy dove for food, so I 
My Juana leave. But listen, Love, to 

me: 
'Fore the autumn feast is for harvest 

spread 
90, (If Mother Mary minds my iniscr&e) 
In just six months return I thee to 

wed," 
Then held her close and whispered 

words to soothe. 
To try their parting's sorrow thus to 

smooth. 



Senorita Juana 19 

Then kissed and with a sob said last 

adieu, 
Strode sadly on, and soon was lost to 

view. 
Juana sighed soft and homeward made 

her way 
Just as the sky hung out the sign of 
• day, 

And dark reluctant, leaving Mitla's 

side, 
Gave way to gray, that soon was lost to 

glide 
100. To the deeper blue that marks the 

nearing morn, 
In other light the ruins to adorn. 

CANTO II. 

With heavy heart did Juana now pro- 
ceed 

To her meagre little hut, where she 
alone 

With widowed mother lived, too poor 
indeed 

The proverbial sombrero and horse to 
own. 

But fate decreed that she in her sorrow 

Should not be left in peace, for 'fore 



20 Senorita Juana 

She reached the tiny yard the first in row 
That stood before the huts in number 

four, 
There stepped in Juana's path a man, 

mid-aged, 
TO. Whose dress bespoke a soldier, and the 

coat 
Of blue was marked on sleeve with 

captain's bars. 
But from his eye a gleam there shot 

that mars 
The best impression gained by noble 

clothes, 
And there was something of the snake 

in pose 
That tends the doubting mind to rise 

and stand 
'Tween hate and friendship ; one who 

we our hand 
'T were better at his throat than in his 

palm. 
Then Juana saw and stopped, near lost 

her calm, 
For well she knew that James McCreer 

no good 
20. To any maiden of her caste could do. 
He spoke, his voice the same struck on 

her ear 



Senorita Juana 21 

As sight of subtile cobra's awful hood. 
In accents soft he asks about her home 
Which might, had she such sorrow not 

to stand, 
In her mind him raise to a loftier dome. 
Ah, now these words increased sorrow's 

demand 
And his ensuing words but to her gave 
Chaos, as though she stood in some 

closed cave 
'Mid oceans of noise whose vibrating 

waves 
30. Beat the ear as billows on a sandy shore 
Unceasing in heaps the sand-like sound 

paves. 
And with a sob she passed from out his 

sight, 
So great her grief, looked not to left or 

right 
Till on her poor, hard bed herself she flung 
And, as we all sometimes, her sorrows 

sung. 
Juana rose at nine from sleepless bed 
With sign of suffering in eyes of red. 
But passed her mother's fond and anx- 
ious gaze 
With a kiss and set about to cook their 

maize. 



22 Senorita Juana 

40. Their simple meal in silence deep was 

spent, 
For Juana's thoughts but to Leon were 

lent. 
But he she slighted on return spent no 
Such sober hours; when met at dawn 

he 'd just 
From all night drink with many a quar- 
rel and blow, 
Now angered at the girl's unhid distrust, 
He thought of one he hoped could give 

him aid. 
And while he walked his rage in oaths 

he said. 
And switched the slender sabadilla 

leaves 
As at a foe. This friend where now he 

went 
50. Was he who owned and held the house 

for rent 
That Juana occupied. And here he 

learned 
That which he on his way so much had 

yearned : 
Behind in rent, he had them at his 

power. 
A formal edict passed (while Justice 

slept 



Senorita Juana 23 

Her scales were transferred to her eyes), 

out stept 
Poor Juana and her madre old; their 

pride 
(They were not peons born) upheld 

them well. 
But at the sale when McCreer gained 

her side, 
The poor girl understood the workings 

well, 
60. But once again refused to give him ear. 
Now dragged a time too full of suffering 

deep 
To disgrace by numbering for amuse- 
ment's sake. 
In the market was sustenance eked out 

dear 
With work and tear. How Juana 

robbed from sleep 
In prayer for help : If Leon were only 

here ! 
One day while selling tamales in the 

street 
Sefiora de Tamatquam passed that way. 
She stopped the coach, with gold and 

lace replete, 
And smiled at her in sweetest motherly 

way. 



24 Senorita Juana 

70. She 'd never met the maid whom Leon 

loved 
And knew not this was she. 'T is hard 

to say, 
But she was also like an April day, 
That darkens, storms, while yet the sun 

is seen, 
For proud, o'erbearing was her mien. 
But Juana, glad to meet a friendly 

aid. 
Made courtesy, held the tray for her to 

buy. 
Sefiora, struck with bearing of the 

maid, 
Stepped from her coach, and yet she 

knew not why. 
"Mia Cara, wouldst like to work for 

me?" 
80. Ah, would she ! Now her madre need 

but rest. 
She answered "Yes" with eager childish 

glee. 
How oft by some mirage we 're has- 
tened on. 
By some base metal led to think it 

gold. 
And when it 's gained we feverish plead 

and pawn 



Senorita Juana 25 

To secure the sage's stone, alembic 

mold, 
That shapes mere brass to highest 

valued gold. 
She stepped within the coach as in a 

trance. 
As when from theatre's charm we reach 

the street 
'T is like the action of a dream. Maid 

Chance 
90. For several weeks seemed well to guide 

her feet 
In reformation's path. The seflora sel- 
dom seen. 
The others kind to her, could Juana 

glean 
A comfort life for madre and herself. 
But ah, that Maid clothed like a Comus- 

elf 
Could naught but trifle if she would. 

One day 
While Juana was at knitting 'gaged 
She felt the charm, the silent, secret 

sway 
Of being watched, and glancing from 

her work, 
She starts in terror joined with strange 

surprise : — 



26 Sefiorita Juana 

lOO. Sefiora like an angry jaguar stands, 

Her eyes ablaze, her hands tight 

clenched ; her size 
Seemed godly in its passioned height ; 

her hands 
Outstretched, she spake in hoarse and 

choking tones: 
"That ring, thou wretched peon, who 

gave thee that? 
Little thought that I a thief had here 

enthroned ! " 
At "thief," that word a challenge 

world around, 
Glanced Juana at her hand and circlet 

there 
By Leon placed and their betrothal 

crowned. 
And with the force of nobleness all 

bear 
I lo. Who sorrow o'er a severed love if true, 
Threw back seflora's glance, who could 

but stare. 
And then her eyes fell as the other's 

grew 
And flamed from character of truth 

and pure. 
"My birth 's as good as yours, Seiiora, 

you 're 



Senorita Juana 27 

The thief who steals from life two per- 
sons' joy. 

How dost thou answer to thy God? 
Your boy 

Was given you to make happy, how, 

How is this duty done? Is your own 
mind 

So potent in its thought as not to bow 
120. Before the heart whose promptings are 
from God ? ' ' 

With that she left the house pride- 
wounded shod. 

Sefiora sat long deep engaged in 
thought ; 

Already something nearly love had 
wrought 

For Juana deep regard. The love that 
he 

The victim feels when truthful noble- 
ness 

Is led to speak his wrath. Seftor at 
tea 

When sat the lonesome two heard her 
confess ; 

And wounded pride was nearly over- 
ruled 

By sorrow caused by son's forced leave 
from home. 



28 Senorita Juana 

130. And so, if now it could be done, they 
schooled 

Themselves to all forget. How oft we 
roam 

Regretful, in the after years, and look 

To help the woe we 've caused by 
thoughtless word ! 

But already Juana had the town for- 
sook. 

Of her could not the slightest trace be 
heard. 

CANTO III. 

'T was midway 'tween the noontime 

and the eve, 
When daylight, cloyed with sight of 

striving earth. 
Seems to grow weary and attempts to 

weave 
A cloud-web o'er the dazzling sun, 

whose dearth 
Of sympathy makes suffering so intense 
Within the tropic clime, it cooler grows. 
And light is partially dimmed by fleecy 

fence. 
'T was in this meagre respite from the 

heat, — 



Senorita Juana 29 

For the Peruvian night is worse than 
day, 
10. Her blanket thrown o'er Nature head 
and feet 
Is stifling in its closely wrapping sway, — 
Two travellers reposed upon a plain ; 
The one who, sitting 'gainst a rocky rest 
His mien clearly marked a man of brain, 
And such indeed is this Professor Gates, 
A man of much renown within the 

States. 
But tall and straight the other stood, his 

mind, 
Unlike companion's, seemed confined 
By thoughts more distant than the wild, 
fair scene ; 
20. And noble brow bespoke a cloud of care 
That with the lines of wisdom struggled 

there. 
His eyes one moment wrapped in tender 

light. 
Then gleamed a dark, determined pur- 
pose there ; 
As beacon to the seeking ships at night 
Is masked in shadow, then the light laid 

bare, 
As tender to the sailor as his sweet- 
heart's eyes; 



Senorita Juana 



Alternate darts destruction or a love. 
The savant watched him with a curious 

gaze, 
Throws back sombrero with a careless 

shove : 
30. "Seflor, our trip has failed; no finds as 

yet." 
The other with a quiet voice that would 

unset 
Our character gained from his haughty 

mien: 
"All, Medico, comes to the man who 

waits 
And works; this plain may yet unfold a 

tomb. 
As that mimosa holds its timid baits 
From leilu looking for its food. A 

doom 
Ne'er follows man of own accord ; 't is 

like 
The tamed bird that must be coaxed, 

and man 
Is ever ready to invite the strike 
40. He sees ill-fate hold o'er him. The ban 
Of severed love 's the only thievish woe 
That creeps and crawls into the sleeping 

heart 
As yon an'condas on the antus go; 



Senorita Juana 31 

'T is like the Muras' curare-covered dart, 
The 'whispered death' that lulls the 

brain to sleep." 
The other wondering watched the giant 

snake 
That swayed with solemn swing and deep 
From lofty perch that boughs of wine- 
palm made; 
That bough that Agassiz, my loved 

mentor, aptly said 
50. Looked like "Long limbs of coral 

flecked with green." 
And while he watched, his mind with 

mysteries fed, 
He marvelled at his comrade's readless 

mien. 
This man had met him in Oaxaca's 

street 
And asked to join the party, ten savants, 
In search for pottery from Peru. And 

soon 
Gates found in him a mighty mind. 
As travelling will a friendship tightly 

bind 
The two were joined in study heart and 

soul. 
Leon Tamatquam, such he gave his 
name, 



32 Senorita Juana 

60. As fondness, not merely fame, was 

striven-for goal, 
A most respected student soon became. 
But reticent in speech, o'er past a veil 
Was cast that every glance was to no 

avail. 
Such were the thoughts his comrade 

pondered o'er. 
And turned with careless eye his puzzled 

look 
Round scene whose barrenness could 

naught but bore. 
But sudden starts, for bowlder which 

he 'd took 
For rest, in certain angles glowed with 

furrowed streaks 
Where sunlight rested golden arrows on. 
70. The two men knelt beside this new- 
found freak. 
Unravelled the Toltec picture-language 

drawn. 
With scarce a word to other said. This 

stone 
Of catacomb of unknown age the door, 
The closed clausura, undisturbed throne 
Of rest for thousand cycles, maybe more, 
To them was greater wealth than mine 

of gold. 



Senorita Juana 33 

For full an hour they feast their learned 

look 
On fascinating tales the figures told. 
Then toward the camp their way they 

took 
80, Conversing on the fortune accidentally 

found. 
A fortune dwelt within their pathway 

too, 
For wealth of natural beauty reigned 

around, 
A scene whose worldly rivals are but 

few. 
The rosewood wrapped with long lianed 

wreaths 
Where grew when startled by the noise 

like leaves 
The Agrippina moth in mimicry. 
And as their path was sister to the 

stream, 
The branches held the hcuthns choir 

whose tree 
O'erlooked their tiny mud-made homes 

that teem 
90. Within the reeds that line the river's 

shore. 

Kingfishers starched with stateliness 

with lore 
3 



34 Senorita Juana 

Of Walton watched the game - fre- 
quented tide. 

And diving-grebes, loon of tropic clime, 

At their approach beneath the surface 
slide 

With speed of arrow's flight. In ill- 
kept time 

The partridge drums his quick retreat ; 
on high 

The rainbow -gowned macaws like 
much-mooned ' maids 

Scold at the unoffending men. The eye 

Met all, but their appreciation fades 
lOO. At thought of news they took to 
comrades' camp. 

Around the fire they sat and heard 
with joy ; 

The blaze that served their needs as 
stove and lamp 

Lit up each interested face. But joy 

Cannot allay a forest hunger though, 
and sound 

To supper gained a cheer. After that 
they sat 

And talked with vim o'er finding of the 
mound, 

Upon the soft luxurious mossy mat ; 

' Much-mooned — an Indian expression of great age. 



Sefiorita Juana 35 

Despite the insects 'chanted by the 

light, 
'Mong which a scorpion like a lobster 

small 
no. Went crawling round their feet. Off 

to the right 
And leaning on a tree apart from all 
There Leon stood. A deeper joy to 

him, — 
'T was fame, but was that all? Ah, 

no, the loud. 
Discordant cry of grebe was like a 

hymn; 
At last ill-fortune seemed to lift its 

cloud. 
That hope so long had fought in vain, 

and peace 
Was in his heart. Next day they oped 

the grave. 
And from its jealous aged hands release 
The tokens of a former art (the cave 
120. In modal and its wealth may now be 

seen 
In the largest museum of our land). 
Their work complete, a fame secured, 

and glean 
Of wealth from thankful world they 

knew at hand, 



36 Senorita Juana 

They start on home return. Float 

down the stream 
Where Nature satiates her wildest 

dream, 
And languid answers plea the fairies 

sent, 
Gives tacit leave to tawdry ornament. 
The Amazon 's a rich-cut boudoir 

bowl 
And filled with silver fish or glistening 

gold, 
130. And round the room her neat, artistic 

soul 
Hath ranged the richest hangings earth 

can hold. 
But like the furred intruder in that 

room, 
Bespeaking for those gold-fish awful 

doom. 
Roam monsters like the myths of an- 
cient Rome, 
Surprising stones within a setting 

such ! 
But one of her unsolved enigmas this, 
For she surprises us in very much ; 
It only interest adds, 't is not amiss. 
From off the bank and startled by their 

boat 



Senorita Juana 37 

140. Cruel caymans crawl into the deep, 

Or like Turumus' Trunk they stealthily 

float 
To challenge those who thus disturb 

their sleep. 
Beneath the crystal surface like a lens 
Are seen the gliding water-snakes from 

dens 
Beneath the spreading roots of Exselsa 

tree 
That built its domicile too near the 

tide; 
Or poison-dart backed duridaris glide 
Seduce a smile from stream near ripple- 
free, 
While chasing smaller pecos spitefully. 

CANTO IV. 

Once more we 're led to Mitla's Mono- 
lithic Hall, 

Once more to that all-silent mysteried 
wall, 

That may have stood assaulting armies' 
blows. 

Or nobler thought protected priestly rite. 

The sun three fourths its trip had made 
and glows 



38 Senorita Juana 

With all its torturing, mantle-moving 

might. 
The ground is tessellated with the light 
That mixes with the dark to form a floor 
Marquetry-like, — more pretty than the 

wall 
lo. Of that Mosaic Corridor so near. 

The light in more detail than former call 
Portrays this ruin, of past a mighty bier, 
This unarched type of massive Norman 

style. 
Which calls more question than the 

pyramids 
Of Cholula and of Egypt too. A trial 
This sun must have at night to close its 

lids 
When prying man comes peering round ; 

it saw 
It built and, pleased by worship given to 

him, 
Made oath to keep it from the future's 
maw; 
20. And we on gazing thoughtfully share 

this whim. 
'T would half its interest lose if were 

but known ; 
Cursed be that man, that relic-seeking 

drone, 



Senorita Juana 39 

He need not leave his first reluctant 

track 
To find a living curio. The sun, 
As if to drive these curious travellers 

back, 
Threw stinging darts of heat that 

seemed to run 
Even the shadows through. In refuge 

sought 
In gloom a wide-girthed pillar made 
'Gainst which the sun when he had use- 
less fought 
30. Laid there to sleep, and thus the spot 

of shade. 
Two women rest. The one was old and 

gray, 
Reclined in posture spoke her ill or 

tired ; 
The other, young, was standing, loving, 

near 
And lending words of hope scarce self- 
inspired. 
But was not this the harvest-time of 

year. 
And would the feast not grace the town 

at morn. 
And now 't was almost night, would 

Leon come? 



40 Senorita Juana 

She bent to loose the old mantilla rich, 
In Anahuac but worn by noble born, 
40. That madre's strength alone could 

scarce have done. 
What was that shadow unseen by the 

maid 
That crept from the subterranean hall 
From Inlaid Corridor! It trailed the 

shade, 
And like an anaconda shunning all 
That spoke of being seen. And was it 

not 
A reptile bent upon their harm? No, 

not 
A natural snake, for looking close we 

find 
The same malignant brute that caused 

this woe. 
A cobra 'd be a closer friend than mind 
50. They crossed in its brutish lust. Sure, 

yet how slow, 
He crawls from stone to stone until he 's 

placed 
Himself between the women and the 

door. 
Another man in richest velvet laced. 
Whose gold-insigniaed sombrero speaks 

him a prince, 



Senorita Juana 41 

Came striding down the road. An up- 
ward glance 
And Juana sees her Love. With open 

arm 
She runs toward him, but sudden stops 

and clasps her hands 
And shrieks in warning wild alarm ! 
McCreer had leaped behind Leon and 

stands 
60. His sword upraised to strike; Leon 

leaped round, 
As quick as lightning bared his blade, 

and found 
The stroke upon its guard, then raised 

his steel ; 
But God had drawn His 'venging sword. 

Leon, 
His sword yet pure, saw foe back wildly 

reel, 
And staggering fall. The three looked 

on 
In awe, but Leon's piercing glance was 

caught. 
Excited points to right hand of the man ; 
There was the proof, — not mortal had 

he fought. 
But God through Nature had amended 

plan 



42 Senorita Juana 

70. And punished here in lieu of Judgment 

Day. 
And as they looked a tarantula leapt 
From off the swollen corpse and ran 

away. 
The fiend who on the ground before 

them slept 
But slightly showed the effects of poi- 
son's power, 
So like his natural countenance that 

hour 
Of drink had Circe-like changed form. 

In awe 
The friends now fled the most revolting 

sight ; 

The sun in sorrow hastened to withdraw 

And hide her loved Mitla from the 

light; 

80. So glad that justice had been meted out 

But sorrowed that her fane should be 

the court. 
When near the town they saw as if in 

doubt 
A man advancing slow ; he nearer came ; 
'T was Leon's father ; then the two stood 

still 
And waited each to speak, but love 

o'ercame 



Senorita Juana 43 

And though against the dictates of his 

will, 
The father embraced his son and burst 

in tears. 
Now was an end to all his haunting 

fears, 
A chance to make amends for suffering 

caused, 
90. He loosed his son, the proud old man 

ne'er paused, 
Saluted Juana as a daughter dear. 
Her mother with respect, — and all was 

right. 
Perhaps illiterate surmise and fear 
I have been wont to cast before your 

sight, 
But I believe in some our neighboring 

spheres 
There may or will have been more 

James McCreers. 



SEASONS 



45 



LAY TO THE WEST WIND 

All IGHTY muse of lyric lays attend, 
* ' * Meditate with me awhile, and bend 
Your thoughtful head o'er your listening lyre 
And sing to it songs divine. Inspire 
And appoint me earthly sire for thee 
Signed by accolade of fame. Make me 
To rightly give rank to wind we love 
All other summer zephyrs above. 
Our nation's best admirer, too. 
He knows each dell and each mountain view, 
For with Nature his wife he roams across 
Between the brother seas, when they breathe 
To her songs that bring the beauty blush. 
He does not come with a mighty rush, 
But soft as a tinkling lyric lay. 
For the scenes he meets upon the way 
In our lovely land's unpeered array 
Bid the west wind his advancing stay. 
And he gains their character so sweet 
As we when often the good we meet. 
Through the elms, whose trembling, nerv- 
ous keys 

47 



48 Lay to the West Wind 

Are cedillas softening sounds of breeze, 
Over grassy lawns and laurelled leas, 
Through the fields of corn, pretended seas, 
Comes in beats the love-tune-laden wind. 
Each a lost chord ne'er to be defined, 
Each a harmony sweet and refined. 
As of dryad's virtued voice in trees con- 
fined. 
Through the fragrant heaps of new-mown 

hay. 
From the smellful spots where lilacs lay, 
With the clover cologne of summer day. 
And the perfumed breath of dearest May, 
Comes the west wind laden with odors 

sweet. 
With its gentle gasps it bears the bleat 
Of the sheep upon the sloping mead. 
Of their stingless gossip as they feed, 
Or stretched beneath a leafy shade. 
Contented, calm like a Quaker maid ; 
Or the distant mooing of the cows. 
The bugles that blow at set of sun. 
And from its place in the topmost boughs 
The cow-bunting sounds his gurgling fun. 
Ah, sweet is thy power, O tyrant breeze ! 
We will willingly take Hume's Histories 
That herald absolute control, 
If thou wilt usurp the horizon's gates. 



Lay to the West Wind 49 

For thou art the kernel and the soul 
Of creation's ripening force. Mandates 
From thee are the "Sesame " that gives 
Entree to all that blossoms and lives. 



A RESTLESS SUMMER EVENING 

I IKE monster moths the wind-mills wave 
*-^ Their white wings in the breeze, 
Their two long black antennae lave 
In brooklet's shallow seas. 

Their ghostly guard they watchful keep 
And spring their rattle clear, 
O'er ev'ry rumor wind blown near 

Of comrades not asleep. 

The drum-beat of the hyla joins 

The cricket on the lea, 
That stretching down almost purloins 

The spot where the bank should be. 

And answering water-beetles seek 
The moonlight on the creek, 
To dress their raven mail to fight 
Their foe, the town street-light. 

Array themselves, platoon and flank, 
And steadily ascend the bank, 
To hyla's drum and cricket's fife. 
All eager and all life. 

50 



A Restless Summer Evening 51 

And then the restless courtier breeze 
Comes whistling through the trees ; 
Teaching each leaf the pibroch trill 
Piped by the whip-poor-will. 

O, nervous eve of summer-time, 

So restless, full of life, 
How our souls respond and climb 

To tingling, vague, sweet strife ! 



WINTER 

"~P IS winter. Through the leafless trees 

Sing not the birds ; nor in the ground 
Chirp not the insects, hum not the bees; 
Naught but the cold wind's mournful 
sound. 

The face of Nature seems to borrow 
The stoic silence of one in sorrow ; 
No smile our chastened natures meet 
When eager bend we at her feet. 

Hither and thither all is still, 

Hushed is each busy, bubbling brook, 
Stopped is each tiny tinkling rill, 

Sealed all with pearl, a sacred nook. 

Divers are the pictures Nature brings. 

But whether the snow flies or spring bird 

sings 
Blest beauty is present, and here e'er to stay. 
No matter how balmy or chill be the day. 

52 



THE BREAKING OF THE BUDS 

'T'HE month whose nature gives it name 
* Hath laughing, smiling come. 
And Nature wakes in sweet acclaim, 
That was so sad and dumb. 

And voices, though not skilled in tune, 

Sound to our waiting ear 
As sweetly as the best in June, 

'T is absence makes them dear. 

The plaintive pewee builds her nest 
'Neath bridge that spans the brook; 

In times of danger and unrest 
It seems a peaceful nook. 

And robin to the opening year 
Is calling "Quick! " in fear 
Lest we should lie asleep too long 
And shirk the opening song. 

All bring good gifts to noble-born. 
For April 's born to-day; 

53 



54 The Breaking of the Buds 

The month when drear rains cloud the 
morn, — 
At noon the sunbeams play. 

'T is then the brown buds burst their bonds, 

Reveal the wax-like leaves ; 
The tiny, stretching, bashful fronds 

That tremble forth like thieves. 

Encouraged by the suckling sun 

And accommodating rain, 
As though in virtued soil ant-dune 

Whose powers fakirs feign : 

They fructify with magic might, 
A nation in a night ; 
And like the swift chameleon change 
The brown for green estrange. 



THE CHRISTMAS TREE 

\17HEN winter's cold and dismal blast 
^^ Comes calling bush and leaf to rest, 
To tell the birds their song is past, 
And helps the frost till Nature *s dressed 
In mourning for the summer dead. 
Then blooms a tree so full and free, 
The Christmas Tree. 

In foreign lands grows the bread-fruit tree. 
And trees that dishes grow, and queerer still, 
Right here at home we egg-plants see. 
But here indeed grow children's toys. 
The dolls and drums for girls and boys. 
Why can't it e'er in blossom be. 
This Christmas Tree ? 

Each year discovered all anew 
By white-robed pigmies, dearest folk ; 
Each mindful of the rest, and brew 
No storms as older people do 
When they discover something new. 
If only grown-folks could unearth 
Some Christmas Trees ! 

55 



56 The Christmas Tree 



A Christmas tree to turn our thought 
To share our brother's joy and rue, 
As oft we watch the children do. 
The fond solicitude for some one else 
Which all resolvfed hatred melts, 
The childish joy at others' gain 

Around the Christmas Tree. 



PROPHECIES OF SPRING 

OOON Nature from the pupal state will 

^^ wake, 

Bud blithely the blest empurpled wings 

Of spring and summerward its flight will 

make, 
Imago-like from bright to brighter things. 
And birdlings their unfictile song will sing, 
Tiny but touching tones of joy they ring, 
Echoed as on the green-gowned flowerlet 
The butterflies sweet-sipping sit. 
Content in silence their short stay to live. 
E'en the lakes and rivulets run restive 
From out their prisoning white winter's 

snail-shell 
And leap joyfully down the awakened dell. 
And Nature awakened without, within. 
Will praise the Creator, still or with song, 
With voices all varied though theme is akin. 



57 



MY FLOCKS 

A SUMMER LAMENT 

ly/l Y flocks have wandered far, 

' No more they line the bar, 
My shepherd is asleep, 
Far flown his precious keep, 
Alone their fallacy I weep 
As baby o'er her cloud-choked star, 
O'er those who 've wandered far. 

The West wind wafts perfume, 

But my dear flocks are fled. 

The East wind was my Crook, 

Why was his work forsook ? 

He fought the North wind, wolf of fear, 

In stormy fight both met their doom, 

The marbled pole 's their tomb. 

The West wind wafts perfume, 
It 's but the ghost of dead. 
The North wind and the East, 

?8 



My Flocks 59 

It cannot find my flocks who 've fled, 
The trail they left is of the least, 
And I must sit in gloom, — 
My fruitless watch assume. 

The West wind wafts perfume; 
What are my flocks you say? 
The gulls and hawks are they 
That on a Northeast winter day 
They line the bar within the bay ; 
Their pasture is the spume 
Unriped by West's perfume. 



FROST 

"Xl/HEN the summer-time is done, 

When the winter 's just begun, 
For an artist from the skies. 
To remove the summer dyes 
Apropos for winter's eyes. 
Nature sends. 

You may see him tinf the flowers 
And the leaf that shrinks and cowers 
In deep dyes of gold and red ; 
And the tiny nested nuts 
Rudely broken from their bed 
By his hand. 

On the windows works his art. 
As he etches mimic hills. 
Boundless woods or single trees. 
Broad lagoons that run to rills; 
Many scenes the Frost can freeze 
With his brush. 

With an imitation snow, 
Deftly draws a garden white. 
Turning back the sun-sent light 

60 



Frost 6 1 

With an opal's rainbow hue, 
Covering o'er the weaker dew 
On the ground. 

Thus the fairy artist Frost 
Works his will, near winter-time. 
'T is the winter's first attempt 
Making snow. A signal chime 
Tells the world its harvests reap, 
Then to sleep. 



'TIS TIME THE THRUSH TRAVELS 
HOME 

"T'WAS only yesterday I heard the thrush, 

In conversation with its mate, 
So soft but all distinct in morning hush ; — 
"For thrushes here the time grows late, 

"And now where shall we go, sweet darling 

mine. 
To Southern lands of palm and pine? 
Or West to Angeles' flowery fields, 
That for our nest sweet rose-leaves yields ? 

"Or to the Aztec's mystery -weaving walls, 
And build our nest in rocky cleft? 

For from the trees the leaf already falls, 
And soon no nesting will be left." 

And then I watched them fly to far-off South, 
The land the sunshine ne'er forgets. 

I hear the farewell song from out his mouth, 
Till softer, softer still, it gets. 

62 



The Thrush 63 

So sweet but sad the song now says, — 
"Farewell, 
Wee-o, wee-o, tit-ti, wee-o." 
Who love the birds these tones a blessing tell, 
'Cept when they sound as now, — "We 
go." 

Our gray-cheeked friends have fellow-trav- 
ellers, 

For summer soon will yield her sway. 
And weary winter weather no song lures ; 

We soon will toil through tuneless day. 



THE GRASSHOPPERS 

A CROSS the tessellated spring-time fields, 
■^ Whose furrows ordered interlace, 
The fields that grudging the country road- 
way yields. 
That runs like a brook through grassy 
place, 
These insects happy leap from square to 

square. 
As though a game of draughts was there. 

And wearied with their short-winged flight, 
they dive 

In the road, then rise all wet with dust, 
E'er trying to show how much they are alive. 

Then 'neath a leaf their head they thrust. 
As if ashamed of their dust-bedraggled suit, 
Whose sombre hue 's e'en more acute. 

This dull brown garb is changed while on the 
wing 
For clothes of velvet, black and white, 
Like Norman monks' gowns but a covering 

64 



The Grasshoppers 65 

For satin cloak with ermine white. 
And, too, when watched they sit like judges 

gray; 
Be unconcerned and see their play. 

So many leaping all around, it 's strange, 
While their positions quickly change. 
That their mosaic-vision 's always true 
And ne'er confuses any view. 
But any one possessing checkered eyes 
At jumping should capture the prize. 



THE FIREFLY 

\ 17 HEN the gales of the daytime have all 

passed away, 
That the touch of the twilight has kind 

smoothed away, 
Comes the firefly, St. Elmo's Fire of the 

wood, 
Prophesying from storm a repose calm and 

good. 

Scattered sparks from the smithy the wood- 
land employs 
To fashion a covering of sable mail, 
To envelop the forest in proof against noise 
And the laboring mood that in daytime 
prevail. 

Tiny torches the blossoms are bearing along, 
As they come in the night to the buds they 

belong, 
To surprise you and me. Here and thither 

they fly 
In the search for the stem that they should 

occupy. 

66 



The Firefly 67 

We can be little fireflies in earth's sin-dark 

night, 
Tiny sparks from the forge of the Maker of 

light. 
Lighting flowers to buds that some chance 

seed has sown, 
To a life fit for worker and not for a drone. 



THE BROKEN BOUGH'S LAMENT 

AN INDIAN SONG OF JEALOUSY 

Broken Bough, a chief of the Delawares ; Ilawta, his 
faithless wife ; Morfa, his enemy ; Ossier, his son. 

THE THREAT 

WOU stole from me who loved her, 

With soft words gained her glance ; 
Your piercing words have charmed her, 
But sharper still 's my lance! 
You wooed her from my wigwam, 
And bade my heart be calm, 
That, swelling like the torrent 
With floods that clouds have sent, 
But waiteth for the moment 
To break with wild intent. 
Or mighty wind of Heaven, 
Disdaining looks on men, 
With power to wreak its vengeance. 
But, waiting, hate contents. 

68 



Broken Bough's Lament 69 

The storm that 's lashed for hours 

With sullen, angry hate, 

Is calling in its powers 

To wield a mightier fate. 

Beware my vengeance, Morfa, 

Thy trail shall e'er be mine, 

And like the dreaded cobra. 

Who mate's loss doth repine, 

I '11 follow thee at hunting, 

And like a hawk watch thee ! 

Till, when your triumph 's ringing, 

And honored is your tepee. 

Like an avenging panther 

Then in your tent I '11 spring. 

And Hawta then I '11 woo her, 

My old love-songs I '11 sing. 

And, smiling, thee will defy 

To brook the lion's wrath; 

And see then 'fore Hawta's eye 

Who '11 tread the lonesome path. 

For thou hast stolen from me 

The rosebud of my life. 

The morning dawn in beauty, 

The sweetest song her life. 

You stole from me who loved her, 

With soft words gained her glance. 

Your piercing words have charmed her. 

But sharper still 's my lance. 



70 Broken Bough's Lament 

LAMENT 

0, Hawta, fairest lily 
That Manitou hath made, 

And thou who deigned to love me, 

To bright the gloomy shade ! 

My wigwam was without a flower, 

As like an ugly stone 

From resting-place is thrown 

And then a handsome flower 

Is sown where all was dark. 

Oh, wilt thou, choice relenting, 

Roll back the crushing stone? 

And there my flower choking. 

My happiness o'erthrown. 

My life is like the roses 

When sun hath hid its grace. 

And fading now reposes 

All crushed 'neath sorrow's pace. 

Oh, wood-dove of the forest. 

My love, Majella, hear; 

1, first in every conquest. 
Who scorn both death and fear, 
Am mourning like a woman, 
With wisdom of a child. 
Myself my fiercest foeman 
From bootless thoughts and wild ! 
Come back, oh, come back to me. 



Broken Bough's Lament 71 

I '11 willing all forgive, 

If thou art now unhappy, 

All happiness I '11 give. 

Why couldst thou not be happy. 

Contented, when with me; 

I loved thee, served thee truly, 

Respectfully, tenderly. 

No burdens didst thou bear me, 

They were for harsher ones ; 

I bade thee be contented. 

And tell me what to do 

To make your life rose-scented, 

That was your hardest rue. 

I sit beside my tepee 

(The bravest in the town 

But gone now is its beauty, 

As storm-clouds sun-days drown) 

And watch our little Ossier 

Go running up and down. 

Or stealthily like the panther 

The butterfles surprise 

With cunning of his father ; 

But, caught, he loosed his prize, 

With love gained from his mother. 

How canst thou leave our darling, 

Who needs a mother's care? 

Come back, oh, come back to me, 

Thou sweetest and most fair ! 



72 Broken Bough's Lament 

Oh, wilt thou, past forgetting 

How I have worshipped thee, 

Blight lives so unrelenting, 

Of loved son and me ? 

Farewell, then, dearest sweetheart, 

Farewell, ye forests old. 

Farewell to scenes that were so sweet, 

Now like a story told 

Of happy freedom once possessed 

To captive foe harassed. 



MY VALENTINE 

A H, Cupid, bring me back my valentine 
*^ And sow it round with eglantine, 
Where as I sent forget-me-nots there grew. 
You charmed her not, you bade me woo ! 
Forget-me-not? Ah, yes, for lack of care 
Those flowers have wilted, faded where 
A moment hence in joy and promise placed, 
Were watched and nursed in nervous haste. 

And with that valentine I sent my heart, 
Transfixed with your now painful dart, 
That in the suddenness of ecstasy 
Made numb, the wound was feeling-free. 
You say this grief will last as did the joy? 
For years did I my pride employ 
To wrap the rue in insult without grief. 
The hidden thorn still mars the leaf. 

Go, bring my broken heart, o'er it I '11 weep, 
The truant card I '11 carefully keep. 
And mourn in silence at the lonely grave 
It marks, — for love that life me gave 

73 



74 My Valentine 

Hast also taken life. Perhaps some day — ■ 
Who knows? her wandering feet may find 
That grave; I '11 keep fresh-flowered and 

waiting stay, 
Our forget-me-nots may grow entwined. 



THE LABORER'S SONG 

P\EAR Lord, I pray Thee not to make 
'-^ Me an immune to toil. 
The lives of leisure that forsake 

The working of the soil 
Are spent in weeding thorny roots, 
With trouble as their fruits. 

But harden hands that hold the plow 

To dress life's stony field, 
To fling the furrow straight allow, 

To rock and root ne'er yield. 
The hardness of a work depends 
On strength that courage lends. 

E'en if the trouble-ridgfed glebe 

With sorrow's frost is white. 
Deep down, safe-hidden from the sight 

And contaminating blight. 
Lies the green and growing seed, 
From darkest days lies freed : — 

75 



76 The Laborer's Song 

The seed that 's sown by Thy great love 

Pregnant with prophecy 
Of rest and life with Thee above. 

The surface sorrow frost 
Warmed and melted is the source 
Of strong, fructifying force. 

Dear Lord, I pray Thee not to make 

Me an immune to toil, 
"Wreaths gained of vanity shall forsake, 

But those of labored toil 
Shall e'er increase," so make me strong. 
Thus ran the laborer's song. 



T 



NEW YEAR'S EVE 

HE bells announce the old year speeds, 
But by self-queries nearly drowned, — 
Count not thy years by days but deeds. 
Call not complete lest victory crowned. 

When on that day my years unrolled 
I glance along what they unfold. 
Shall this which trembling waits to fall 
Stand o'er the rest more bright and tall? 

As miser shines his last-earned coin 
And lays so tender by the rest, 

Which even want cannot purloin, 
Is my last year the brightest, best? 

If not, e'en want cannot recall. 

As bad associates e'er seduce, 
Will passing year pollute them all? 

I trust 't will brighter power produce. 

Dear God, to whom for help we bow, 
Give strength to keep the well-meant vow ; 
Give new-born year the best of earth. 
As wise men at the Savior's birth. 

77 



A DULL DAY 

T 'M sad to-day. The west winds waft the 

fogs away 
That Hngered o'er the bay. 
The drizzling damp so drear starts now to 

disappear, 
But melancholy 's here. 

My sleeping soul is prone to think the 

wind, 
With feeling far from kind, 
Hath taken from round but left the mist on 

future planned. 
Ambition 's lost demand. 

The butterflies and bees so bright my life 

did light, 
They sleep, they think 't is night; 
And sun sick with the sinning world in 

mourning stays 
To hide in clouds its rays. 

78 



A Dull Day 79 

In grief I turn for robin's cheer or catbird's 

call, 
But sorrow stills them all. 
The trees are hung with tears like crystals 

from a cave, 
The mourning mist these gave. 

But contrast clings in scenes like this. The 

sun more bright 
Will seem to our waiting sight 
When once again it shines. The songs from 

silence steep 
Will seem more sweet and deep. 



A SUMMER SHOWER 

O EE the tiny spheres of rain 
^ As in merry play they run 

Down the pane. 
As the storm has just begun, 
They have time to while away 

In sweet play. 

By and by their speed 's so swift, 
Down the glass they drift 

Like a brook. 
And the drops all fade away, 
In their work no time for play. 

As we look 



Through the screen of pearly beads. 
Of the trees and flowers one reads 

In clear song. 
When the rain new life it brings 
From their gala gowns joy rings 

All day long. 
80 



A Summer Shower 8i 



And the rivulets repeat 

To the bending, listening wheat 

Joyful thanks. 
'Gainst the scorching sun's long siege 
Reinforced once more they flow 

O'er their banks. 

For the rain we thank thee, Lord, 
'T is a blessing we can ill afford 

E'er to lose. 
Though it mars our plans and plays, 
It 's a joy in other ways, 

That we choose. 

6 



A PRISONER 

A PRISONER I, what though through 

golden bars 
I see the sun and scan the stars 
'T is yet not freedom's air I daily drink, 
Sometimes my memory 's wrong, I think. 

My former life seems such unsullied bliss, 
As like a dream when viewed from this. 
Long since I came from sunn)'' southern 

Spain 
Where naught but happiness had reign. 

One day they caught and bound and blinded 

me, 
A long, long time I could not see; 
And when at last unbound I looked around 
In a prison's gloom myself I found. 

Alas ! the same as tiny plant peeped through 
With timid strength coaxed by the dew, 
Instead of sunny scene she 'd heard it told 
Found snow-numbed Nature bleak and cold. 

82 



A Prisoner 83 

No more through green-gowned groves of 

trees I fly, 
Through air of song that ne'er did die, 
And sunbeams gilding all with warmth of 

love 
Awakening praise below, above. 

My friends the birds in hymns with insects 

vied, 
We sang all day and never sighed ; 
Our hearts were light and more our limbs 

were free 
To seek society. 

And now I see the sun but flecked across 
With blackened bars of freedom's loss. 
God made us birds to fly and fill the air with 

song; 
To catch and cage the weak 't is wrong. 



A BUTTERFLY 

OWEET symbol of God's tender grace, 
^ White wanderer who dread death dis- 
dains, 
Breathe the secret of thy filmy race 

Immured from doubtings, griefs, and 
pains. 
Teach us from Nature's heavenly art 
Of sweet submission from an humble heart. 

While wrapped in wooded crypt do you 
Leave useless body here at rest, 

To flit in joy in loving view 

Of the dear Master? Then art blessed 

And back to weary earth come down 

Part dressed with wings in Heaven's gown? 

Is it true that you too possess. 

In common with your neighbor, Man, 

The aches and soul-straining sadness 
Of past deeds done with present's ban ? 

But better knowing God's demands 

Your sorrows leave at His commands ? 
84 



A Butterfly 85 

A far sublimer thought is this : 

Thou knowest naught of sorrow's sting, 
Naught but blithe Nature's loving kiss, 

And doing e'er the godly thing. 
For, knowing but the simple good, 
No evil by you understood. 



SCATTERED PETALS 



87 



THE SPEECHLESS SERMON 

IN striking bold relief displayed 

By rising sun's soft, soothing gray 

conveyed, 
This ancient home of chivalry 
Stands told, a tale of past glory. 
Methinks e'en now the knights with 

squires, 
And armed as though the time requires. 
Are passing in through blazoned gate. 
With bugle call and shows of state. 
But this is all of long ago ; 
lo. Only as bits of sound are heard and lost 
When winds waft to then from us 

blow, 
Thus more impress the silence's cost. 
So visions bright soon disappear, 
To leave this place it seems more drear. 
Time's seal is placed on portal-post 
And ivy-cloaked the walls seem part 
Of Nature's work, once proud man's 

boast. 

89 



90 The Speechless Sermon 

Which stands the higher in point of art? 
And e'en the courtyard, stage of scene, 

20. Which history tells and we but dream, 
Now paved in rough marquetry work, 
And green peeps round each crumbling 

block. 
And bees and beetles countless lurk 
Where noble hounds were wont to flock. 
So now the rising sun portrayed 
This haven of Welch from Norman raid. 
Inside, the centuries' marking hands 
Have left no velvet hung on walls 
That once were splendrous archfed halls, 

30. Where banquet song and toast were 
given. 
And stand was made for land so striven. 
And as in years long since gone by 
This castle rang with numbers high 
Of many a noble and brave knight. 
So quick for home to arm and fight, 
Ah, now but one this place calls 

"home," 
A poor and lonely man, whose dome 
Of life is but to work at will 
On garden plot in part of court, 

40. The tiny flower field to till. 
He lived in sweet simplicity, 
Alas ! 't was not so sweet as seems, 



The Speechless Sermon 91 

For though with deep intensity 

He loved the woods, the brooks, the 

streams. 
He knew not Him who made all these, 
Who gave the song to birds and bees. 
Tried he to learn to love the Lord, 
Till marks of pain wrote on his brow 
And heart had sorrow stored. 

50. 'T is far the hardest cross to bear, — 
When one in search of Heavenly grace. 
As earthly pains at heart they tear, 
But knowing not where Savior's face 
Is turned cannot to Him run home. 
And take the blessed comfort there 
When too tired and faint more to 

roam. 
Year in, year out, he grieved and prayed, 
And fitting penitence was made. 
But still no rest was sent to him, 

60. Till last it came when hope was dim. 
By some small, simple errand led 
To donjon dark on left of keep. 
The only place by sun not reached. 
Where dark unwaked had lain asleep 
Through a night of many varied scenes, 
And heard nor seen what passed with- 
out. 
As different masters by various means 



92 The Speechless Sermon 

Acquired the fort ; but all held out 
That this grim tower was their best 
power 

70. A stubborn heart to break and part. 
So as the man went in this day 
A tinge of sadness touched his soul. 
He thought of prisoners passed away 
Their lives with suffering in this hole. 
And he, not far removed from them, 
Was prisoner of a sterner foe, 
For consciences when held by them 
Are strict and unappeased bring woe. 
And, too, his dungeon was so dark 

80. Where ne'er a ray of light shone in. 
And his heart with awe and sadness 

throbbed. 
But what is that on the floor in front ! 
Is 't beast or bird of freedom robbed, 
Or victim of some ghostly hunt? 
With wonder, fear, and reverence 
He picks the object from its bed, 
Where by its dust-draped appearance 
Long time had lain in chamber dread. 
With what a feeling then he looks 

90. On one of that Christianity's books 
That he in vain so long had sought ! 
What memories, too, this Bible brought 
Of one who taught him at her knee 



The Speechless Sermon 93 

When heart was light and conscience 

free! 
A burning tear stole down his cheek. 
He asked not how it happened there, 
Nor wished for further things to seek, 
He knew that silent, dusty Book 
Was leading link to peace and rest. 

lOO. And kneeling there, the Book he took; 
These cheering words his eyes arrest : — 
"How say ye to my soul. 
Flee as a bird to your mountain? " 
So the birds that he saw and studied 
In God reposed their every trust. 
And God giving strength they hurried 
To the rest of the Maker's love. 
So love of Nature joined to thought 
Of passage read conversion brought. 

I lo. And God from seat of power above 

Stretched down a hand, assistance gave. 
And tired, sick soul on wings of grace 
Then fled to Him who soon forgave. 
Rest, peace, and joy flood o'er his face, 
He 's happy now as busy bird turned 

home 
Leaves trials that infest his roam 
And wisps to mate and young the tale 
How Christ takes care of tired and frail. 
Just list ye here who suffering read, — 



94 The Speechless Sermon 

1 20. Ye delve too deep for rest indeed; 
Just catch the song that insects sing, 
And hear the birds bear too the 

melody. 
All through the works of Nature ring 
The songs of sweet simplicity 
That tell : — All ye who 're sick and sad, 
Flee home to Christ, He '11 make you 
glad. 



MUSIC 

A S on a quiet sleeping woodland stream 

A weeping-willow leaf in falling wakes 
The resting riplets ranged in tiny troughs 
Of space, which gliding 'cross lingering lisp 
To the farther shore ; so music on the ear 
Takes sweet consolation to sorrowing souls, 
Souls that sleeping, o'ercome with deep de- 
pression, 
Are rippled into a sense of the being. 
As from side to side slipped the water-waves, 
So one directed note of magic music delves 
Into the darkest dungeons of our hearts. 
Brings forth the long-hid brightness buried 

there 
By some past secret sorrow that unbidden 
Stays still, our visions of the future mars, 
Our thoughts of past to tinge in bitter 

shade. 
All ages knew thy power on mortal emotions, 
All epochs thy power to soothe or waken 
The fierce feelings of war or prayers of peace. 
95 



96 Music 

Thy voice in various tones to earth comes 

down 
With softened syllables from ill-wrought 

pipes 
Beguiled in Paradise's Park the four, 
'Cept one from whom all nations take their 

birth ; 
Or ringing round the wayward walls kept 

time, 
As seven-circled Jericho was taken. 
'T is made or listened to by all earth's life 
'Cept one or two mainly Canidse tribe, 
Whose ears of more acute sensitiveness 
Catch waves which, quickly moving, us 

escape. 
They hear the faintest incongruities 
Which striking pierce their feeling ears with 

pain. 
When ponder we on immortality 
And on that life existing after death, 
The music plays a most important part. 
And ever when we wish to write or speak 
Of aught that 's sweet and soft and lulls our 

souls 
We call it song, that word itself says 

"sleep." 



THE DEVON COAST 

T'H ROUGH the mists of the sheltering 
sea-fogs 

A vision of beauty we see, 
As ploughing through spray that sight clogs 

The land lies to view on our lee. 

After months of surging storm on the ocean 

We at rest in the harbor lie, 
With scarce a wave-move or a motion, 

Though wind and the fog are yet nigh. 

But when through the dismal dawn of the 
morn 

The shining sun in splendor breaks. 
Then the fading fog from its place is torn, 

The wind his departure he takes. 

And then to our eyes without aught to stop 

A heavenly picture appears. 
As though us from work to drop 

Neptune this paradise rears. 
97 



9^ The Devon Coast 



From the water's wave to the steep hill's 
crest 
Are green-clothed farms and tiny towns 
In the springtime's blest freshened beauty, 
rest, 
Framed round with purpled cliffs and 
downs. 

And grazing quietly on the sloping fields, 
The countless clouds of cattle climb, 

And softly stirring with light lowing yields 
The west wind their joy-ringing rhyme. 



THE SAILOR'S STORY 

piRST let me tell about the house wherein 

I stopped 
When this true tale was told to me. With 

tall trees topped 
And girdled round with gooseberry vines, a 

view so bright 
The scene 's in memory still and years scarce 

dim the sight. 
Well-built of rough-hewn blocks of stone, 

the ivy green 
Clings close as curtains grand on a stage help 

out the scene. 
Within, the spacious dining-room was tyrant 

here 
And all the other rooms withdrew up-stairs 

in fear. 
Across one end that grandest piece of house- 
hold art 
The family fireplace stood, warmed body, 

thought, and heart. 
But still the room was cold and drear one 

man without, 

99 



L.cfC. 



loo The Sailor's Story 

Our landlord happy, gay, and wise; he, 

though quite stout, 
No one so quick for other's needs or kind- 
ness show. 
Many men came here and many I learned to 

know, 
Diversified in bearing, means, and depth. 

But one 
My interest gained, and, too, his confidence 

I won. 
From youth he 'd sailed the known and un- 
known seas. 
And touching tales he told of scenes so 

strange, though true. 
Of cannibals and gentler tribes. Of coral 

keys. 
Of trees that formed a fane adorned in 

brightest hue. 
But my mind was touched when, drawn by 

I know not what. 
In gentler tones he told of those 'mong 

whom his lot 
Some time had cast, the Indians Caribbee, 

so near 
My own dear country, too. And legends 

he 'd learned here 
When sung my heart went to these simple 

men whom he 



The Sailor's Story loi 

Was wont to "Nature's Nation" name, and 

well bestowed. 
But memory 's e'er a fickle friend and brings 

to me 
But one sad song of these, I '11 tell if you 

please. 
It oft returns to me with thoughts of those 

I 've known, 
The long, sweet hours we sat and talked of 

strange sailed-seas. 
Perhaps a friend as he 's seen me sit by 

hours alone 
Has thought it strange, that saddened smile 

at naught he sees. 
That old Welch Inn, I see it still, and years 

scarce dim the sight, 
But lingers on. Perhaps once more I '11 

wander there 
And greet my friend. Sometimes I wish 

I 'd sailed with him ; 
Would mournful memory mock as now it 

does my mind? 
I could not change this persecuted people's 

woe, 
My mind might more revolt at that which 

there I 'd find. 



THE TALE OF TAWAH 

A CHIEF in silence stood one day 
■'^ Where Tobasco's tide flows in the bay ; 
His grave but gentle face was lined 
With deep-drawn marks of thought that told 
Of more than common cultured mind ; 
And eyes both tender, bright, and bold. 
These eyes were turned toward open seas, 
And trouble, sorrow, shone in these. 

Behind him smoke in snaky strings 
Slow trickled to the sky. Sometimes 
From happy souls sweet laughter rings ; 
His sigh that 'scapes scarce rhymes. 
He hears his wife, Suava, sing 
To lull in sleep their babe so dear, 
That bears his father's name, Tawah. 
The chief's head sank to hide a tear. 

The watch had called his chief to view 
A fast approaching sail. In view 
Of tales he 'd heard of Spanish deeds, 



The Tale of Tawah 103 



The chief with anxious thought now reads 

Of danger dread his tribe impends. 

Unskilled in war, in simple trust 

They live, no controversy rends, 

All thoughts of war away they 'd thrust. 

He hears some steps that sweet resound 
In well-known notes upon the ground. 
"My lord, the sun prepares for sleep; 
What sees Tawah that should him keep 
Away from lodge where braves are met 
And smoke their pipes of peace and set 
The toils that each must do next morn 
When shining Sun-god 's once more born? " 

He tells her not what most he fears. 
But arm in arm they homeward turn. 
With whispered songs that strike our ears 
When sung in simple tongue like theirs, 
As murmuring meadow brooks that run 
With tinkling tread o'er mounds of moss. 
Though years bridged wedded life across, 
Their courtship seemed as just begun. 

They passed through groups in joyful play. 
And older ones with straw so gay 
Were weaving baskets bright. The men 
From hunting just returned all sat 



I04 The Tale of Tawah 



And smoked in silence deep, for when 
An Indian council meets they make 
No speech till something they have to say ; 
That 's not quite like our council's way. 

The drum was beat, the men repaired 
To council-lodge, where ill-prepared 
The sober news the chief made known. 
And now these men of peaceful mind 
Were changed and darkening looks were 

thrown 
Toward intruding foe. The man most kind, 
When aught against his loved one turns, 
Is made a fury's fire that burns. 

The gentler ones that night reposed 
In sleep that simple safety gave. 
But many heads no sleep proposed ; 
Their souls a safer state did crave. 
At morn the Spanish sailors land, 
Indulged their roughened sport all round. 
Received in patience by the band 
Till act that lost their minds' command. 

Tawah with tiny shaft and bow 
Was toddling round and shooting bees. 
His father fond his skill to show, 
And try the Spanish chief to please. 



The Tale of Tawah 105 



A sullen Spanish rogue, a don, 
Seized shaft and bow in fiendish fun, 
And struck the babe a blow when he 
To ask for captured toy made free. 

The chief a moment stood struck dumb ; 
Rose 'mong the braves an angry hum. 
Tawah the peace-man changed ; his face 
Grew drawn and set, his muscled arm 
Appeared like oak entwined with vines. 
The don stepped back in mute alarm, 
But quicker still Tawah sprang forth 
As lightning leaps from startled north. 

He seized the don with arms that time 
Of constant toil in hardening clime 
Had forged to consistency of steel 
And hurled him o'er the river bank. 
A time they stood and knew not how to feel. 
A quick command from one in rank, 
The fight began. 'T was one to four, 
But the natives fought as ne'er before. 

But give not a shout or sound ; 
They tread the ground with winged bound, 
They seem the space with men to fill, 
But then they die as well as kill. 



io6 The Tale of Tawah 



The chief in conflict closed with two, 
When through he saw an awful view, — 
His men all killed, his town on fire, 
With naught but dead to greet their sire. 

Ah, worse than all in wild dismay. 
He found by careful, close survey 
The feebler ones had captured been, 
When foe the braves all dead had seen ! 
The brave old chief, o'ercome with grief. 
In vain by calls Suava sought ; 
That she was gone he 'd scarce believe. 
For grief e'er slow by mind is caught. 

Tawah now followed far and fast 

Along the coast where the Spaniards sailed ; 

But on the camps some days had passed 

When he arrived. His heart ne'er failed, 

His heart but Suava sung, his eyes 

But Suava sought, on every rise 

Of ground his sight in eager light 

For signs of loved led in unwilling flight. 

And tired in everything but love 
And hate, two mightiest forces they ; 
Under the eagle or the dove 
Do all men stand, to save or slay. 



The Tale of Tawah 107 



And here a mutual goal in view 
When body lost revenge but grew. 
God gives His help and strength to fight 
To suffering ones who 're in the right. 

Till last one night the camp he sees; 

From camp the light shines through the 

trees, 
Outlines all objects round the tents, 
And through the natural forest-rents 
He saw the figures of the men, 
And thought he saw a darker skin. 
Tawah his son was either slain 
Or by adoption saved, this thought gave 

pain. 

Then of a sudden came a shout, 
Some one in scouting from camp gone out 
Had seen Tawah ! Quickly he gained 
Suava's side, where blows he rained 
On ever growing foe. Then came 
Command to "Fire," a burst of flame, 
A cloud of smoke, the deed was done. 
Too many such victories were won ! 



AN INDIAN SAGA OF THE MOUND- 
BUILDERS 

A T council's fires from learned sires 
**■ As old as yonder oak, 
In school of age well titled sage, 
I heard of whom you spoke. 

From cold northwest 'fore earth was blest 
With beasts or flowers or trees. 

From dark confines where he ne'er shines, 
Came the Sun-god's enemies. 

And Manitou turned dew to snow 

To entice the strangers on. 
Thus made the cold clime called winter-time 

The night without a dawn. 

Deceived by same, they onward came 

To Delaware's domains. 
The sun then shone from golden throne. 

The snow gave place to rains. 
io8 



An Indian Saga 109 

This sudden change to them so strange 

Brought suffering and dismay. 
They shelter made within the shade 

Of cliffs without delay. 

There temples reared rough-hewn and tiered 

With highest cultured art, 
For Mars their god with science shod 

To advancement gave the start. 

Of mighty Sun Mars was a son, 

They parted at his birth, 
And now opposed by fates proposed 

For people on the earth. 

But father's right combined with might 

O'ercame the truant son. 
Despite their cry were doomed to die 

These people of the cliff and dune. 

The strangers sought and wearily wrought 

To gain their god's relief. 
The altared mounds so often found 

Were part of their belief. 

The snake-shaped wreath within whose teeth 

The Eden apple lies, 
By sign of sin self-conscious in 

Was soul-felt sacrifice. 



no An Indian Saga 

To no avail their plea and wail, 

They vanished one by one. 
This was the tale the Indian told 

Who worshipped god the Sun. 

Some rumors claim these strangers came 
From Asia's sun-warmed clime; 

'T is prejudice that moveth us 
In translating every rhyme. 

Perhaps 't was wrong and but a song 

Of mistradition made, 
But rocks remain and publish plain 

Accounts that do not fade : 

Those pious piles uncrossed by smiles 

To answer History's glance, 
A monastery of chastity 

Against impure advance. 

The bones that bear with jealous care 

With ice-bound mastodon 
Pictures of past. Ah, hold them fast 

And pure, sage skeleton ! 

Naught moves our minds nor interest finds 

As mark of mystery. 
Grown dumb with age, like Thracian sage, 

Still think, though silently. 



An Indian Saga iit 

My soul take heed, from sin-stains freed, 

With quiet dignity 
Oppose the coarse and worldly force, 

And quiet, stately be. 

May sin be lost as morning frost 

Beneath a passer's feet, 
As thoughtfully I go passing by 

Through life's short, winding street. 

As time hath swept and no type kept 

'Neath slow, deliberate pace. 
The life and lore that are no more, 

Leave silent, restful peace. 

Depose the noise that mars thy poise, 

The troubled tide so strong. 
Life simple, sweet, is far more meet 

As well as doubly strong. 



ALIENI TEMPORIS FLORES 
(FLOWERS OF PAST TIME) 

ARGUMENT 

T^HE sweet soothsayers that breathe out 

legendary lore, 
Those legends whose untruth but makes 

them loved the more, 
Cannot in volume all complete count history 
Of meanings given their names. Still may 

not we be free 
To reason and in our ensimpled manner 

guess 
The parentage of superstitious songs? The 

stress 
That Nature's charms lay on our lives has 

right to weave 
The quaint traditions which our minds in 

part believe. 
For things e'er look to us more than their 

visioned form. 



Alieni Temporis Floras 113 

'T is ne'er degrading or unseemly to trans- 
form 
The scenes we see to tales that entertain the 

best 
Not others but ourselves. And then those 

meanings part in jest 
When held 'fore memory's lamp e'er bright 

reveal a stamp 
More tragic than of mirth. As on glasses 

we must wear 
To aid our enfeebled eyes, although we feel 

they 're there 
Unusual motes are best perceived by holding 

to a light. 
How oft we meet a word from another's 

lexicon 
Of life that so resembles ours we 're startled 

quite, 
As though our soul had spoken aloud its 

long-still woe ! 
These mystic theories of an idle hour that 

gave 
To ancients their conception of a God, fast 

grow 
In fertile field of thought and by connections 

grave 
Bear truer fruit than seems at first sight to 

bestow. 



114 Alieni Temporls Flores 



Bent like a willow that weighing snow 
Of many years hath curved, or the blade 
Of Time's famed scythe as the artists show, 
Like the drooping flowers that 'gin to fade, 
With white silken hair that seeks to hide 
The forehead creased with care; but the 

tide 
Of sorrow could not efface 
The smile that sweetens the kindly face ; 
At the window grandpa musing sat. 
I followed his gaze across the flat 
To the sloping steep our churchyard 

crowned, 
To the fartherest corner, where I knew 
Was a well-attended mossy mound. 
Where grandma lies, his heart lies too. 
I heard him softly sigh and two tears 
Were trembling held by his lashes long. 
When a step that told of youthful years 
Was heard and a face like a joyous song 
Peeped in at the open door. "Come, dear," 
And sister Helen came running in, 
And grandpa's smile soon chased the tear. 
Her hair soft as silk that spiders spin 
With its satin pinions prisoning stay 
The golden gleam of a summer's day, 



Alieni Temporis Flores 115 

And trying to break from bondage sweet, 
In confusion her hair is scattered quite 
In prettiest way though not so neat, 
Embroiders with gold her fur coat white. 
"Here 's some flowers I picked for you," 

she said, 
"Some are yellow, some are pink, some 

red." 
He kissed her twice and took the flowers. 
He looked them o'er with a word for each. 
With words to us given though were not 

ours, 
As one who speaks to himself alone. 
But usurps the gaze of those around. 
Of that which but interests him, but would 

atone 
By dissembling thought in dialogue gowned. 
"Ah, simple soothsayers, well you quote 
My fate in a sad and doleful note. 
But sighs in the alembic of a hopeful heart 
Are gilded o'er with thanks, depart 
As a smile to soothe another's cross. 
Who suffers most can pity more 
Than those who have known no lovfed loss. 
Come, prophetic blossoms, what 's your 

lore? 
My happiest days are long since through? 
Ah, meadow-saffron, you tell it true! 



ii6 Alieni Temporis Flores 

And linked with the blue-bells' constancy 
And sorrowing regret the dowry 
Of ash-leaved trumpet's loneliness." 

II. THE FADED ROSE 

"The pretty petals all have dropped away, 
But brown and dirty bud is left ! " 
Thus cries our little Helen, much bereft, 

When favorite flowers fade away. 

"It seems as though my flowery butterfly, 
Afraid that he was born too soon, 
Had slipped back into his cocoon." 

Right, little one, he does not fade to die. 

Our lives are like those roses too. 
Some live as long as wills the sun. 
By chance some fade though just begun, 

And prematurely tire of earthly view. 

And older as we grow our graces leave. 
And leave us beautiless and sad ; 
Ah, blessed thought, to make me glad 

'T is my cocoon that I begin to weave! 

And sorrow's artificial heat will buy 

But sooner graces glorified, 

To flit in joy to Savior's side. 
Ah, cheering truth, I do not fade to die ! 



Alieni Temporis Floras 117 

III. THE DAISY 

Down in a little daisy dell 

Down beside the dusty road, 
Where brightest flower-fairies dwell 

And the seeds by pixies sowed ; 

There grew a daisy white and gold, 
Of which this sweet story 's told. 
It may be true or may not be 
'T is just as 't was told to me. 

With many more of daisy-kind 
'T was cut a church to adorn, 

By tiny hands for good enshrined, 
A heavenly message borne. 

It fell unnoticed from the wreath 

To the floor beside a pew. 
Like drops of dew on heathery heath 

That unseen the flowers renew. 

It happed that eve there filled this seat 

A sinner lonesome and sad. 
Here God to-night had turned his feet 

To His love this lonesome lad. 



ii8 Alieni Temporis Flores 

Beneath his feet the daisy lay 
All unconscious doing good, 

As trifling deeds if done each day 
Would extend to starving food. 

A food that faileth not to ease 
The soul-sick sinner's disease; 
Heavy calls for help when heeded aright 
Are answered by efforts slight. 

Yes, Daisy was his sister's name, 

The sister so dear to him ; 
A living gospel giving grace 

By life like a lengthened hymn. 

Where sister, son, and mother met 

He alone now silent sat. 
He longed for rest, received that rest, 

Only a daisy yet did that. 

This sin-weed scattered field of life 
Makes it hard for flower that grows, 

But He, the Holy Husbandman, 
Will protect the seed He sows. 



ONLY A WHITE ROSE 

"T* IS just six months since I put a rose, 

* Entangled it deep in tresses fair, 
Ethiopian tresses, where the rose 
Shone like a starlet glimmering there. 
A token of tryst so strong and true 
Implanted in joy no thought of rue. 
Inscribed : "The White Rose — sign of purest 

love, 
Escutcheon of the white wood-dove." 

Just half that time and I pinned a rose, 
And knotted it strong in a wedlock wreath. 
Sacred signet with heavenly light that glows, 
Like a diamond set no sign of grief. 
A token of tryst so strong and true 
Implanted in joy no thought of rue. 
Inscribed : "The White Rose — sign of purest 

love. 
Escutcheon of the white wood-dove." 

And now I am putting the same white rose 
On a bosom that 's cold in marble mould, 
119 



I20 Only A White Rose 

Where it lies in peace from life's sad throes, 
Like the marbled mound on the graveyard's 

snows. 
A token of tryst so strong and true 
That 's welded more tightly by unlaved rue. 
Inscribed : "The White Rose — sign of purest 

love, 
Escutcheon of the white wood-dove." 

But 't is well — that the white reveals no blush ; 
That the silence of death, not shameful hush. 
Is answer to this my heart's advance; 
Bereft by Death's not by Guilt's cursed 

lance. 
A token of tryst so strong and true. 
That beareth no blot on its tincture true, 
Inscribed : "The White Rose — sign of purest 

love, 
Escutcheon of the white wood-dove." 



A SONG OF THE SOUTH 

'T'HE birds and bees had ceased their song, 

Afraid of shadows drear and long. 
Upon a bench near a cabin's door 
A group of colored children sit ; 
But now they noisily play no more, 
Wait till the cabin's candle 's lit. 
The quiet of the hour seems 
To lead to far more sober dreams. 
Each simple mind is filled with thought 
The same as we in youth oft caught, 
Of golden riches, joy untold, 
That farther flee as years unfold. 
The light is lit, then comes a call 
From mammy dear, then scramble all. 
With "Har me is," or "Har comes me." 
They 're in the house 'fore you count three. 
Around the crude old cabin sit, 
Their faces beam by firelight lit, 
Attentive wait. There 's grandpa old, 
Whose hair is like the winter's snow. 
The times of slaver)^ by him told 



122 A Song of the South 

Have left the marks of weighty woe. 

And now he leads the evening prayer, 

The simple service far more fair 

To glance of God than learned law 

And conned by clergy wise. 

They try not in their faith to find a flaw, 

But laden with lowly love prayers rise 

Carried along by simple song : 

"Listen, Lord, our evening prayer, 

Sing it loud in Heaben, Lord, 

Sing it for our sister 's dere, 

On dat shore we 're sailing toward. 

"When it 's dark and quiet-like, 
When the birds have gone to bed, 

And the solemn thoughts us strike, 
Listen while our prayer is said." 

The conscience clear and humble heart 
Bring blessings to their sleep, — a sleep 
That can't be earned by other art. 
Lord, teach me simple love to Thee, 
That I more like this folk may be ! 
The deeper down in theory tied, 
The more absorbed and moved our mind, 
Sometimes these things will love elide. 



THE CHARM OF THE BROOK 

A LONG the bending, bubbling brook, 

Soft whisp'ring to attentive reeds 
That lean, half-grasping mossy nook, 
To list the madrigal it pleads ; 

That gurgling 'neath the feeble bridge, 
From which impends a weeded knot 

That like cedilla softens tone, 

It hums a hymn not light forgot ; 

Or searching for that wished-for fern 
A saucy frog upholds his head. 

In studied hauteur tries to learn 
The one by profanation led ; 

That seems to chuckle as we ask 

Each other genus of a frond. 
And there to aid the stream in task 

Some lad had built a bank-walled pond; 

We draw from this minute lagoon 
A cup that Hebe would have held 
123 



124 The Charm of the Brook 



In triumph to her lord, but tune 
A half-felt doubt of charm it held. 

Weave on, thou silver thread in life. 

That tinged with sorrow mourns for years 

Long past, a happier lace o'er mask 
Of cynic mail, no proof 'gainst tears. 

And on the beauty blush possessed 
Where Nature's fairies have caressed 
My soul steals kisses in sweet joy. 
A Lethe thou art without alloy ! 



DYING DANNIE 

A STORM had swept o'er Shrewsbury's 
shore 
For many a weary day, 
The white-capped waves in anger tore 
As they came from down the bay. 

A small, neat sloop at anchor rode, 
And bravely she fought the gale ; 

The waves dashed o'er her streaming deck, 
And the ropes in wind did wail. 

A fisher's humble home this boat. 

With his wife and baby boy. 
'Mong storms they lived, at storms they 
laughed, — 

A storm is the sailor's joy. 

But Dannie 's sick to-night, and they 

A full mile from Sandy Hook. 
To reach the shore, the only way, 

Since their skiff the wild waves took, 
125 



126 Dying Dannie 

Was but to swim through whirlpools wild, — 

But the doctor must be called ; 
The fisher watched his dying child, 

More by grief than storm appalled. 

His weeping wife watched stern-set face, 
With a fear she dared not show. 

He turned, — his tight-shut lips, grave face, 
Told 't was vain to murmur "No." 

"I 'm going, dear; 't is a fearful fight, 

But the Dannie lad will die." 
She seized his arm, with strength of fright 

At the storm and death so nigh. 

He kissed her twice; she bade him stay, 
For 't was death to swim that sea ; 

In voice with love grown soft he said, 
"But he '11 die, our baby wee." 

And in the sea he found his fears 
Were but naught beside the real ; 

He saw in thought the wife in tears. 
And the thought gave strength of steel. 

But soon so tired, how sweet to rest, 
And his arms gave up their task 

And sought his weak and bruised breast, 
And the waves his form soon mask. 



Dying Dannie 127 

But sudden starts the sleeping form, 
The waves he heard them sighing, 

"Poor man, he 's conquered by the storm, 
And Dannie lad is dying! " 

No sleeping now, but all alert. 

And the waves he flings aside; 
What though they bruise and hurt, 

The race is against Death's tide! 

The watching life-men on the shore 
Noticed something floating near, 

And from the greedy gulf him bore. 
So far gone for life they fear. 

Then ready hands assistance gave 
And his tale to them soon told ; 

A boat and crew they need not crave. 
For they offer, young and old. 

The doctor saved the Dannie lad. 

But he got there just in time; 
An hour more and far more sad 

Indeed would have been my rhyme. 

In after years the tale oft told, 

The father ever would say : 
"The labor done for love is light," 

We all think that every day. 



THE ATLANTIC 

'T'HOU remnant of that universal sea 
* Which cloaked the world before our 

history, 
At thy great power what tides of thought 

awake, 
The mind of man its smallness learn you 

make. 

Thank thee for times in sweet security 
You 've borne my bark across your bosom 
broad, 
When danger held not the dread of maturity, 
In youth when nothing feared and nothing 
awed. 

But now I owe thee something more, for 
gifts 
No price but love can buy. As Nature 
found 
No such safe storehouse as thy bed and 
drifts— 
For study there is mystery in each mound. 
128 



The Atlantic 129 



There 's planning polyp that martyred makes 
the land, 
A tiny cell with scarce an organ known, 
That, leagued with millions of its kind, and 
sand, 
Accomplish well what can't be done 
alone. 
• 
The polyp a lesson preaches us, — that power 

Is unity. Each one his part and all 
Can do what seems to one like clouds that 
lower 
Before the summer storm's dread strength 
doth fall. 

Beneath thy roaring tide 't is fairy-land. 
Where water-waving groves hold flowers 
and trees, 
Each one like stone-turned rainbow band. 
That flashes in brightest hues in watery 
breeze. 

And mountains grim guard vales in deepest 
night 
Where strangest beasts in safe seclusion 
swim. 
For study rich but never brought to light. 
Not e'en for Science's all-winning whim. 



I30 The Atlantic 



So strong and yet so kind, you smiling stand 
The seaming scars that ships by thousands 
leave ; 
Sometimes a frown, but moods move sea and 
land, 
Sometimes in joy, sometimes so sad we 
breathe. 

You guard your treasure well as Nature 
knew, 
But man is bent to find the "how" and 
' ' why. ' ' 
Old ocean, I have spent my life with you, 
And wish a grave in your green groves 
when I die. 



SHAKESPEARE 

OWEET scion of the showy stage, 

^ Whose mellow music holds a theme 

Beyond its merely sensual page, 

That bids us think as well as dream. 

In common course of human code 

Philosophers make poets poor, 
For motives muffed to fashion's mode 

Though pageant proud cannot allure. 

But thou hast moulded in each man 

A concrete motive or a theme, 
But as we carefully, closely scan. 

With well-known individuals teem. 

You knew each human nature's bent, 
And yet bequeathed not of your own. 

Why are your works so reticent, 

And personal traits so seldom shown? 

Your persona] puppet was each word 

The English tongue can boast, but heard 
131 



132 Shakespeare 

Conceit with an indifferent air, 
And jr^ received not usual human care. 

The borrowed plots can cast no taint, 
As many minds have stooped to try; 

The bee that steals the flowers' paint 
But borrows to improve its dye. 



HIDDEN SORROW 

T ONCE was strolling near a stream 

Whose usual mood was crystal clear, 
And much surprised that silvery gleam 
Was mantled with a muddy blear : 

I sought the cause of saddening force, 
And, near the cradle of its birth, 

Where through the elms it earns its course 
With tribute to the thirsty earth, 

A wind-wrenched bough was part submerged 
And yet, half-hung, swayed by the wind. 

Stirred up the silt. The stream emerged 
With tainted tide and pride inclined. 

Years since I sought that rivulet. 

The tree was gone, the stream seemed 
pure, 
But on the bed the sullage set 
A shade that ever will endure. 
133 



134 Hidden Sorrow 



The pure white pebbles now were brown, 
Like white rosebuds 'neath calyx screen, 

But still as I stood gazing down, 

So changed, I think what they have been. 

I trembling start in sad surprise ; 
What mirrored image meets my eyes? 
Have I too changed in such a way 
Since I was here in former day? 

I took a stick and stirred the bed, 
Again the stream was sullied slow; 

'T was only sleeping and not dead. 
That taint received so long ago. 

In joyous, unshadowed sky of youth 
Sometimes a foreign force will mar. 

Will stir a storm that mufTs the moon 
And ostracizes every star. 

The storm abates to thoughtless eyes. 
The soul seems full of happiness, 

But yet down deep there latent lies 
That bitter tinge of undying stress ; 

And features seen by loving friends 

Are marked with something nameless 
quite; 



Hidden Sorrow 135 



The smile has sweeter grown, but tends 
To dwell beyond our earthly sight. 

It needs but one word, heedless said, 
To quicken memories thought as dead, 
To stir once more the gulf of grief, 
And life 's a maelstrom, rock, and reef. 

The snows, the joys that cheer the creek, 
Are met with eager, happy eye ; 

When source is gone, go vainly seek. 
For snows like joys must ever die. 

And though they swell the surface tide, 
In fulness tend the bed to hide. 
Unmoved, unameliorated woe 
Oft takes this chance to steadily grow. 

And sorrow's sullage, though it makes 
A soul more sweet when casually read. 

Tries hard to mantle hearts that ache. 
Lest rueful word should contagion spread. 



A PAINTING BY A FRIEND 

A SCENE with smiling on its face, 
^* Two gifts of God's all-tender Grace: 
The man-made but enhallowed shrine, 
And Nature, ours, but ever Thine. 

All clothed with satin robe of white 
That Nature drew in dark of night. 
An holy altar-cloth, and spread 
To teach us softened, thoughtful tread. 

The Sabbath stillness reigns supreme 
As in some sweet and happy dream, 
And seems its quiet to diffuse 
Upon my soul as I look and muse. 

The fane, one of those precious few 

To old world give sublimity. 
But slight, for ceded faith, the new, 

That scorned restraint for liberty. 

The evergreens form background meet, 
Now spangled with a thousand gems 
136 



A Painting by a Friend 137 

Enhancing simple dignity 
Of church that proud display condemns. 

A far more suited ornament 

To show the people's worshipping will, 
To faith a better monument 

Than gilded pane and marbled sill. 



SIMPLE WORSHIP 

T NEED no grand enmarbled shrines 

Where eyes are sovereign to the soul, 
Whose grandeur in our prayer entwines, 
And form must fashion pious role. 

But God's best altar 's in the wood, 
All service there is true and good. 
I well remember service there. 
An hour in sweet informal prayer. 

The worshippers attentive seem, 
The scene is silenced at their wish, 

As floating leaf lingers in stream 

Held steady by nipping, leaping fish. 

So every noise abeyance felt, 
While all creation thoughtfully knelt. 
This worship reigned a moment long 
And then the choir raised heartfelt song. 

With baton no director metes, 
The tune was timed by glad heart-beats ; 
138 



Simple Worship 139 

The part each took not voice decreed, 
Nor any written staff they need ; 

The scales have fallen from their eyes, 
The rod and staff that leadeth them 

Are sent from Him within the skies; 

Not that we would these things condemn, 

But when the very soul and heart 

Are dressed to fashion's robes and gowns 

*T is time that world and I should part 
To pious woods from 'sembling towns. 



AT TWILIGHT 

D ALANCED day and evening now they 

*-^ swing, 

Twilight shadows around me cling, 

Melodious memories softly bring, 

And to my resting spirit sweetly sing. 

Loath to leave her fading field seems day. 
Strives still, and for an instant seems to stay 
Drear Darkness' approaching fated sway, 
But Nature rules and Nature has her way. 

Thus memory, lingering, held by sadness 
E'er regrets our souls to leave, 

Till the Lord in all His goodness 
Helps our heavy hearts not grieve. 



140 



THE AMCEBA 

'T'HOU tiniest taste of Nature's scheme, 
* Tell us the secret of Life's dream 
As you know it, who unseen. 
Except by those with man-made eyes, 
Live on while centuries pass between. 
While man but moment lives then dies. 
With scarce one organ thou art made. 
Yet, used in praises justly paid 
To Him who made both you and me; 
Live on in silent, sweet content. 
With what a thoughtful memory 
Has Nature all in wisdom sent ! 
Can it be that thou, so simple, small, 
Art forefather of animals all ; 
The Poi-de-Stoi on which there rests 
The solution of Darwin's thought, 
Changed with countless centuries' tests 
In other forms thy comfort sought? 



141 



THE WHIP-POOR-WILL 

/^H, daylight-exiled bird, what hast thou 

^^ done, 

That thou art so afraid of the sun? 

Are rumors of thine occult powers true? 

When evening hides from curious view, 

All muffed in brown cabalistic coat 

And drawing burly head down close, 
Straining with mournful - meaning charms 
your throat, 

Art then invoking vengeful woes? 

I creep close to your low-built home, 
Where you in study spend the day, 

Awaiting dark to spell the starry dome. 
And see you stand within the ray 

Of light the moon steals through the trees to 
look ; 

Inspired with theme, you surely look 

Far larger than you are, and musing sit ; 

My presence speech will not permit. 
142 



The Whip-Poor-Will 143 

And then as, scorning ignorant company, 

He fleetly flies away from me, 

The "Mariner's Spectre Ship" made far 

more sound. 
Then sepulchral quiet steals around, 
Commanding e'en the leaves their fluttering 

cease ; 
Then from some distant shadowy trees 
I hear the mournful cadence once again ; 
I scarce can blame the superstitious men. 



THE HILLS OF CLIFTON, ENGLAND 

A BOVE the Avon's fickle tide, 

Where at noon mighty vessels ride, 
At eve aught but a play-yacht 's barred, 
So vast its change. It hurries out. 
Then back it flows as if to guard 
'Gainst time, this wrought about 
By freshening every day 
So age its stream can't stay. 

Above this restless river's bank, 
Towering sublime on either flank. 
In contrast to the changing stream 
Stands still the same that centuries saw, 
Of which e'en science may but dream, 
The hill of classic Clifton's tales. 

They scofl' at Time nor deign 

By refreshment to gain. 

Grand gates that guard this busy brook. 
Following it through pretty bend and crook ; 
The green of foliage on the hill 
Meets green from river just below. 
144 



The Hills of Clifton, England 145 

The trees the stream with shadows fill 
'Cept where the sun steals through to glow. 

The hills with trees and flowers 

Make perfect fairy-bowers. 

These, too, are books with memories deep 
That from a hundred centuries' sleep 
Now willing wake for us to read. 
The tales of life in ages old, 
And waiting minds to wisdom lead. 
Think, Solomon knew what ants retold ; 
We take a bit of stone, 
Tell when and how *t was sown. 

Crayon is from chalk often made 
And Clifton's hills in chalk conveyed 
To man a view that artists shun, 
And ere their work is half begun 
These hills invade for pigments old, 
That pictures of the past unfold. 



ECCLESIASTES XI., i. 

/^^AST crumbs upon the sea, they '11 swim 
^^ to shore for thee, 
A penny spent will bring reward fit for a 
king. 
What though some sink, the greater part will 
blessings be, 
The crumbs that sink in sweeping 'long 
the bed take time. 

A book in path of brother bound for darkest 
doom, 
With word of hope might move in mem- 
ory's mind 
Of time when grace lit life that now is naught 
but gloom. 
And there a fertile field for growing gos- 
pel find. 



146 



THE PHYSICIAN 

Xl/HO toils so much for others' pains, 

Braves all wild winds and raging rains, 
To lighten some poor suffering soul, 
And mind and body's cross condole? 

Who stands beside that death-wrapped bed 
With moistened eyes but stern-set lips. 

Supports in hands his listening head. 
To watch each breath from pallid lips? 

And then when death at last comes nigh. 
And poor sick sinner fears to die, 
Who points to Him who comforts all. 
And takes away thoughts that appall? 

'T is he whom God commission gave 
His children's burning brow to lave. 
And last when heavenly power prevails 
Lead them to Him who never fails. 



147 



ON THE RIVER 

A LONE, alone, I 'm all alone, 
'^ And many, many miles from home. 
My shell scarce swims a finger's length 
In the sluggish stream whose utmost 

strength 
Seems spent to make the silence stronger. 
And, too, the way from home the longer. 
In mind the scene will long abide: 
Tall trees make fringe on either side, 
The stream with bubbling bend conspires 
With trebled trees in waving spires 
To close me in a copse so fair 
Not oft the landscape-fairies spare. 
But now, when 't is in sleep so still 
The breeze scarce shakes the stubborn trees, 
There 's naught disturbs sweet memory's 

will. 
The time is that when thought best moves, 
As conquered day her force removes; 
Softly sinks the golden sun to rest 
Behind yon forest's leafy crest, 
148 



On the River 149 



Slowly retreats like a stag at bay, 
Loath to leave the fast-departing day. 

Now the glory fades from us away. 

It is twilight and darkening falls 

The summer night. Fast across 

The vistas wavering shadows glide 

To the waiting darksome walls, 

Where the trembling water seeks to hide. 

There comes a sadness over me 

That soothes as well as pains. 

Methinks in the tiny waves I see 

A picture, so sweet my gaze it gains, 

Smiling up at me, oh, so wistful ! 

The lips move! I bend to catch the sound. 

The word of comfort and of love 

That I was wont to hear; around 

The shadows start to disappear; 

Fainter grows the image dear. 

"Mother, mother," I lean and call. 

But o'er Luna the cutains fall. 

The darkness comes, and I 'm alone. 

Sadly I turn away, a groan 

Ill-suppressed upon my lips 

And soft a whisper slips, — 

"Absent, and yet in love how near! " 



A WINDY DAY 

WEET, brush those truant tresses 'way 
^ That fall like graceful night soft down, 
To hide the eyes of brown, where day 

Is glancing forth in sunbeam gown. 

Their own lash, modest mantle, shades 
Enough, 'neath which the beams retreat 

And all the light demurely fades 

Into a dreamy thought so chaste and 
sweet. 

Or is the wind trying to drape 
With your silky raven locks as crape, 
For laughter that died from your eyes 
At what you knew e'er words apprise? 

1 '11 brush those truant tresses 'way, 
'T is time for mourning not this day; 
The eyes I know burn quite as bright. 
Not laughter, but with true love light. 



150 



OUR MARTYRED STATESMAN 

'T'HOU too, so strong, so good, so great, 

Must feel assassin's cursed power. 
We sing with feeling songs of state, 

"Land of the noble free," whose tower 
Of strength is freedom borne, — too free 

So deep in seeming safety grown. 
Our eyes are blind, we cannot see 

The murderers e'en around our throne. 

For one like thee death comes not hard, 

But such an end we mourn far more 
Than death in battle sung by bard, 

Assassination shames e'en war! 
Around thy tomb are tearfully laid 

The wreaths the world hath joined to 
weave. 
But thou hast crowns that cannot fade. 

And earth's for brighter laurels you leave. 

The world is sad, the world is sad. 
To think it holds such creatures bad, 
151 



152 Our Martyred Statesman 

Who Moloch-like do murder make 
For murder's sake. But not alone 

We weep, our sympathies awake 
To hear a mourning woman's moan, 

In vain she watching waits for him 

Through eyes that touched with tears are 
dim. 



The mighty oceans ceaseless roll, 

And caduke cliffs are crushed to dust, 
That carried by the tide is dropped 

And tied by Time forms new earth- 
crust. 
Thus rock destroyed returns to rock. 

So Nature e'er transitions try, 
E'en shifts the seeming staple stock; 

Why wonder, then, that we must die? 

From silt of streams by centuries' cement 
closed 

Come learned lessons of the past. 
So when your past is left exposed 

Ideals of character are cast, 
To lift the world from sinful sand 
A step, a stride, to stronger stand. 
Such men are given of God 
That we might walk where they have trod. 



Our Martyred Statesman 153 

The world rolls on and seasons slip, 
And ne'er caesura take; there seems 

To be a something lost, our lip 

Can't form the pathos felt. But beams 

Of light and truth are guiding shed 
To make a model manhood plain. 

Rest thee, with all our martyred dead, 
With Lincoln, Garfield, and the Maine. 



LORD, GIVE US CHEER 

'T^ IS dark and drear and sad to-night, 

Lord, linger near, make bright 
When memories murmur in mine ear 
Long past though ever here. 

Teach of that holy home on high. 
So thoughts like these may die. 
Give us one glimpse of loved ones lost 
To soothe our souls storm-tossed. 

In sadness sunk, teach us to pray 
With humble, thankful heart ; 

Give thanks that things are not far worse 
To bear Lord, cheer impart ! 



154 



A NATURE PARADOX 

'T'HOU bird-beaked beast,' what canst 
* thou be, 
Where shouldst thou dwell, on land or sea? 



Could Nature make mistake like this, 
So careful seldom makes a miss? 

Of form both bird and beaver made, 
But cannot fly, can only wade. 

We have dull days when senses sleep, 
Whate'er we do scarce aught we reap. 

Discouraged Nature may have borne 
Thee when she felt as we, forlorn. 

* Ornithor hynchus paradoxus. 



155 



'T IS PROFITABLE 

Xl/HY wander wearily along, 
^ Encumbered so with care? 

But join the e'er-rejoicing throng, 
Ennumbered sing your share. 

Why travel sunk in sin, a tramp. 
Through dark and endless night? 

Take Jesus as your guiding lamp. 
He *11 lead your feet aright. 

You may become a prince with God 
While sin no tribute gives ; 

The man of God with peace is shod, 
The sinner suffering lives. 



156 



THE HERMIT-THRUSH 

O UPERIOR rival of the nightingale, 
*^ Sad anchorite of forest's gloom, 
But once I 've heard your songs sublime. 
All fail 

To weave in their poetic loom 
A laurelled crown for your sublimest songs, 

But give to him what you belongs. 

Within the grand cathedral of the wood 
When day draws down her monk's gray 

hood 
And night becomes, then rise your evening 

hymns, 
Inspire to cast aside all whims 
And kneel in worship meet. The forest 

prays. 
Subdued by your soul-reaching lays. 

Well may you jealous be of song you frame 

And like a great composer play 
To dearest friends before you give it name. 
157 



158 The Hermit-Thrush 



One note like that again I pray, 
One moment wrapped in such soul-stirring 

bliss 
Were worth a lifetime such as this. 



VICTORIA 

TTHIS world is like a book, 

And its pages are its men ; 
And the common men make the printed 
page, 
And the pictured are the famed ; 
And we interest take in the studied age 
From the pictures that are named. 

A blessed chapter this 

That contains Victoria's face; 
She held England's throne, but earth 's 
proud to own 

Humble homage to her mace, 
Which, as by the custom royal, 
Was borne ahead, but by angels loyal. 

Her power encompassed the world. 
And respect was mingled with love 

That was formed by her mercy and grace. 
And the world with those above 

As she left her "well-run race " 

Wept the tears so sweet and soft. 



159 



LONGFELLOW 

MY thought upon mind's sea lies motion- 
less 
As model bark with' broken oars adrift. 
I fain would find the words my love can't 
confess, 
My unconceit even for love won't lift. 

All has been far more sweetly said than I 
Can ever hope to say. I would that mine 

Were immortal words, that I in love might 
lay 
A trifling tribute to those gifts divine. 

Those poems that perennial blessings live. 
Acknowledge only one, one sweeter gift. 

And that 's your life, that humble life of love 
That, lived for others, helps our labors lift. 

Beside your never-dying songs I '11 lay 
My words that cannot live but for a day. 
My cycle cast to precepts you have taught 
May reach result that you in writing sought. 
i6o 



Longfellow i6i 

The love, respect, that 's deep within our 

mind 
Cannot of words a suited sentence find ; 
For thoughts that hold of heart the largest 

part 
Are those that are not shared, that are not 

bared. 



THE FOREST FIRE 

T STOOD at twilight on a cloud-caressing 

^ hill 

And watched the Furies fling their forces up 

the steep, 
The woods with hell-personifying horror fill, 
With sound like thousand demons awful, 

loud, and deep, 
Broken sometimes by shrill, heart-rending, 

frightened cry. 
As some poor furred or feathered victim fell 

to die 
A martyr's death. The kings unfriendly, 

Frost and Fire, 
Have blended might to further funeralize 

attire 
Of earth in mourning muffed for Summer's 

much-moaned death. 
Hath Vulcan from Vesuvius' failing forge, 

which rains 
Of million storms must have allayed, moved 

smelting-shop 

162 



The Forest Fire 163 



To curious covert of our low unmounted 

chains 
Of wood, that he may case dear Nature base 

to top 
With an impenetrable suit of mail to 

stand 
The weight of wintry war? As fiendish 

flood o'erflowed 
And drowned the sister cities twain of Italy's 

land, 
So now on million helpless homes with year's 

food stored 
Sweeps unremorseless flame. Few escape 

through galleried grots, 
Their homes by habit, safe from outside 

wrath, but lots 
More die. The setting sun with all its glory 

fades 
Before the scene that in abeyance holds 

night's shades. 
At last its seeming insatiate lust is all ap- 
peased 
And slow withdraws its passioned power. 

The sun at morn 
With timid step ascends to throne on high, 

angered, 
And looks with misty eyes at woods of 

beauty shorn. 



1 64 The Forest Fire 



A blackened plain with here and there sur- 
viving fires, 

That looks like dark foreboding sky on 
stormy night, 

With one or two brave-hearted stars that 
show their fires 

In calm defiance to the awful gale's fell 
might. 



A TEXT FOR THOUGHT 

\^7HY can't we live to thought expressed 

In David's song, one-thirty-three: — 
"How good for us all brothers rest 
And live in godly unity! " 

Why not our neighbors' best parade, 
And let their faults at rest lay laid? 
Think of the man relieved from debt 
Who pressed his poorer brother yet. 

Don't think in this you 'd be alone, 

There 's always one for smiles a-search; 

They look to you when you they meet 
For smiles on street as well 's in church. 



165 



THE CYNIC 

f AUGH not at cynic's sneers, 
*^ He paid a price for them, 
For each a hundred tears. 
His coldness don't condemn; 



'T is struggling soul's last stand 
Against a sea of grief. 

Cried he at its demand 

Would drown without relief. 



Better to face a foe 

With a defiant mien 
Than walk with footsteps slow 

Upon a death unseen ; 

The cold and haughty head, 

Than one bowed with its weight, 

For guilt can hang a head, 
It may not be sorrowed state. 
i66 



The Cynic 167 

By snows the willow 's staved, 

By oak defiant braved ; 
Which adds to forest's grace, 

The grieved or changeless face? 



SPEAKING 

XjXT'HAT joy in speaking ships at sea, 

Without, how sad the voyage would 
be! 
We look, we yearn for speaking signs 
That tell of friends in legible lines. 

The smallest speck of smoke 's a hope, 
That broadens till a ship we see, 

Or slipping streams like suds of soap 
Their trail on seeming trackless sea. 

When met the joyful greetings sent 

By small dyed rags for a time thought lent, 

But, too, a silent signal 's met, 

No sense but feeling knows its set. 

It soothes our homesick souls, relieves 
The scene, light blue above all day. 

With dark at night that it receives 
To match the ever dark-blued bay. 
i68 



speaking 169 

'T is link that joins through all mankind, 
That thought of mutual sympathy ; 

And travellers more that friendship find 
With joy to banish apathy. 



LOUIS J. AGASSIZ 

\\/HILE yet in childhood's glory 

la sweet story read, 
Of one now lives in glory, 

Whose memory reigns instead ; 

How he while yet a lad 

His native country left, 
But while the world was glad 

His mother was bereft. 

He left to find the gifts 
That Nature him unfolds, 

And he the curtains lifts 

And fame and wisdom moulds. 

But not content to keep 
The knowledge to him lent. 

His thoughts the nations reap 
In marvelling wonderment. 

He whom the world reveres 
Was born in Pays de Vaud ; 
170 



Louis J. Agassiz 171 

There learned in youngest years 
God's gifts not to avoid. 

And growing, studying aimed 

To following worlds a way, 
And Natural History claimed 

Her dearest devotee. 

And then from weeping worlds 
He stole with sad, sweet songs 

From earth to Nature whirls, 
She claims what her belongs. 

I read, I thought ; I come 
To tread his trail. No fame 

But just content in some 

Ways mark my life the same. 

We cannot all be like 

This one whom follow we, 
But we can love the work 

Blest with his memory. 



LOST IN THE WOODS 

"T* IS sad indeed in forest to be lost 

And wandering weak and comfortless 
along, 
With none to cheer or chide, or count the 
cost 
Of injuring thoughts that to lost hope 
belong ; 
And dragging self with pain through tearing 
thorn 
Laugh loud at wildcat's glaring eye and 
tooth. 
For when to man's mind a dreadful death 
is borne. 
He watches wearily as though forsooth 
The fact to him was of importance shorn. 

And all things hap as in a dream. 
The vaguest fancies find their way to him. 

And every leaf and limb do mocking seem, 
They look so like in shaded light so dim. 

At last so weak, scarce able more to stand. 
Falls faintly on the ground, starts in surprise 

At familiar marks on his every hand. 
And sees with half-unconscious eyes 

The same, same spot he 'd left at sunrise. 



172 



THE VIOLIN 

"TT WAS a quiet evening and almost clear, 

But a shadowy mist was musing 
And swaying in doubt from a June-born fear 
Of spoiling an eve so happy. 
Through its gossamer the stars sat still and 

thought 
Like a spider from gauze-throne watching. 
And thrills of joy the evening had wrought, 
The mists in a sadness were weaving ; 
A sadness that lifts from a sordid life, 
From a sphere of drear straining and strife, 
To ethereal realms where the worlds all 

revolve 
With the sweetest music sighing: 
As the notes of the west wind to-night re- 
solve 
Into chords with a heavenly harmonizing. 
I wandered listlessly along 

The country road that winding, 
Charmed by the bounding brooklet's song. 
Invited not the idle thronging 
173 



174 The Violin 

Who in the distance lazily strolled 

Along the social highway. 
No leaping pulse but quiet-souled 

My mind led in contempt from the gay. 

When close beside the listening lane 

I heard a violin playing ; 
And creeping close, saw, through the pane 

Of cot both small and hiding 
Within the trees, a gray-haired man ; 

So old already seeing 
To Heaven's gate, his glad bow ran 

To rhyme with angel's hymning. 

My soul unbound and throbbing with the 
theme 

Was led in gladsome travels like a dream. 

One moment silent by a woodland stream 

I catch its lyric verse from silvery gleam ; 

Then musing, wrapped in solemn thought 
and deep, 

I climb some mist-web-captured mountain- 
steep. 

And hear the winds moan music minster- 
deep. 

Like amens from cathedral's archfed keep. 

Or nightingales in upward flight repeat 
Sonatas sung by whirling worlds whose beat 



The Violin 175 

Thrills through our hearts on nights like 

these. Then sweet 
And cheering chirp of robin modest, neat. 
Through all of Nature's gamut my heart 

sings 
In answer to the calls from charmed strings. 
My longing soul leaps forth, in sweet strife 

brings 
My mind to peace, aside all earth-thought 

flings. 

The cunning mist entangled the quiet night ; 

My minstrel stopped his playing; 
His face upturned with smiles alight, 

He seemed in peace of sleeping ; 
But something strange came o'er me, 

I stepped to where he was sitting, 
I touched him : "Father, peace with thee," 

His forehead 's cold, unfeeling! 

Ay, dead ! And could a mortal feel 

Such heavenly thoughts inspiring 
As he had brought from senseless steel 

On that unearthly evening! 
Could a mere man so play and live? 

Whene'er I hear the thrilling 
Of a violin, to Heaven I give 

My soul that 's toward it striving. 



176 The Violin 

The violin 's the earth-brought chord 

Of music of the spheres, 
That gives in life a higher ford 

On which Heaven in answer nears. 



MANDOLIN MEMORIES 

SERENADE I 

All Y mandolin's tremolos their tlvrill impart 
^ " ^ To my subdued, expectant heart, 
And touch with tumult my uncertain mind. 
As leaves are tossed by playful wind. 

The stern old castle wraps his shadow-gown 
And seems to shiver at the chill 

Of ghostly light that circled moon sends 
down. 
That suits his cold reserve so ill. 

The meagre breeze scarce teases smooth-spun 

moat, 
The silence seems to shrill my note ; 
I would an accompanying bird were singing 

near! 
Music must ever modesty fear. 

But rose-like in its dark, forbidding bud 
That peeps through opening walls at day, 



178 Mandolin Memories 



Yon lintel looses hold of latticed shade, 
Charmed by the song that love hath made. 

A heart hath heard my lay, although unseen 
I know she lists. The castle's frown 

To me is now dispelled, the friendless scene 
Hath changed, in beauty all has grown. 

The graceless heath-bells' lavender coat I see 
Like Mist-flowers clothed in beauty, 
Whose every leaf 's a heart. The moat, the 

trees, 
Attempt to drown the tuneful breeze. 

A timid hand slow opes the shutter wide, 
And Orpheus-like I listening bide. 
The lintel calls her modest maid 
And my Eurydice hath strayed. 



SLEEPING BEAUTY ON THE LAKE 

SERENADE II 

A S if on wind-blown leaf wc float, 
^^ No breeze-born bubble frights our boat. 
'T is though a sage, deliberate snail 
Was master in the art of sail. 

No sound except when loving tide 

Throws murmuring kisses on our bow, 

As though in friendship to confide 
The secret of her placid brow. 

Unmarred to-night by fretting frown. 
That comes when in unequal fight 

She tries the quarrelsome wind to drown ; 
The peaceful west wind reigns to-night. 

A curious longing seems to fill 

The night, uneasy at the rest 
Unworld-like, but must needs be still 

At meditation's strange behest, 
179 



i8o Sleeping Beauty on the Lake 

Not e'en the lance-like call of loon, 
'T is though the world were in a swoon, 
Like storied maid who pricked her hand 
With venomed spindle, witches' brand. 

And dare I on my waiting strings 
Strike chords that virgin love will sing, 
The kiss that will disperse the spell, 
And wake the choir I love so well? 

A suited setting for our Lydian lays, 
The mandolin's soft, low murmuring, 

Transporting soul to dreamy days 
To come, or past, which happier ring. 



THE STORM NEAR THE CORNISH 
COAST 

'T'HE bold-winged gulls with frightened cry 

To the creviced chalk cliffs fly, 
To the havens safe from the raging waves 
In the weather-chiselled caves. 
It seems that the Lord to warn the weak 
Hath given them power to speak, 
They in trumpet tones the caution bear 
"Beware, beware, beware." 

Then came a lurid tongue of flame, 
The storm-god's dreaded sword, 
That rending the hurrying storm-clouds 
came 
And with red the black sky gored. 
Their anguished groan shook the mountain- 
heights. 
And the sea was flecked with foam, 
Then came the rain down in unchecked 
flights 
Beating back the angered comb. 



i8i 



SARGOSSA SEA 

A STRETCH of sea o'ergrown with weeds, 
^^ A false appearing solid leads 
The mind a mocking mainland see, 
As many a show by world set forth 
Substantial seems though quicksands be. 
This tricky tract Sargossum filled, 
Which eye thinks hard though foot sees soft, 
Has passed for fields and meadows oft 
To please the sailor's eye. 

Thou grewsome grave of hundred ships 

Denied a decent death, denied 
A burial too, but scornfully left 

Towed by the undertaker Tide. 
No tombstones grace thy graves. Thou art 

Thine own memorial monument. 
'T were better if on native land 

The storm to nobler death had sent 
Instead of this sarcastic strand. 



182 



THIS BAB-EL-MANDEB 

" f TNLATCH th\s£:ale of tears;' I cry, 

^ "This world of sob and sigh; 
Why must I wait while friendships die 
And happiness decry? " 

The waves of sorrow rise, 

Bear down before my eyes 

The friends I love, and still my cries, 

And still the tides uprise. 

There moans my friend in tears. 
With sorrow past his years, 
And sympathy traced by my tears 
But my life's etching rears. 

But on the angry waves 
That he so vainly braves 
I see a form who ever saves — 
He walks the watery paves ! 

A voice divine in will 
Speaks, "Peace, peace, be thou still! " 
The storm subsides, a restful rill. 
And hope smoothes o'er the ill. 



183 



FORGET-ME-NOT 

"T* IS but a Christmas card of long ago, 

A verse or two entwined with mistle- 
toe, — 
But ah, what memories linger, sweet but sad, 
Yes, sad, though joined today when all was 

glad. 
And on the cover lies the link 'tween now 

and yesterdays, 
In faintest blue and bound in straggling 
sprays. 

Forget-me-nots. 

And Christmas comes and Christmas goes 

'tween now and then, 
But like that one will never come again. 
And life her weary trials hath given till they 
A thorny thicket make and mar the way. 
But through that tearing thicket's seeming 

close-entangled thorn 
There shines a spray unfaded and untorn, — 
Forget-me-nots. 



Forget-Me-Not 185 

No, no, not yet, not e'er will I forget, 
However close hangs life's care-carrying net. 
I wander lonesome through the flowered 

fields. 
Enjoy the blessed blooms that this field 

yields, 
But there is one more loved than these and 

one that cannot die, 
'T is that sweet spray that brings the past 

so nigh — 

Forget-me-nots. 



ZOOLOGY 

'T'HERE 'S a song that sounds oh, how 
' sweet ! 

And it 's sung by the birds to my heart, 
And the bees and the bugs they take part 

In syllables meet. 
And the moths and the butterflies bright 
Trill the tune in aerial flight, 
Though the force of their voice is so light 
We can't hear. 

'T is a work that is teeming with joy. 
As its God's blessed creatures we view, 
And we call them by name and we learn 

All they do. 
We write down each one's failings and faults 
In the way that the Lord notes our lives. 
And our mind from the lessons they teach 

Good derives. 

Still Hyotomy 's not pleasant work, 
But there 's never a song e'er so sweet 
That can all the discords well shirk 
In harmony sweet. 
i86 



Zoology 187 

For we pay for life's pleasures full well 
With a pain for a smile and a kiss, 
For there 's only one place that 's all bliss, — 
That 's in Heaven. 

So the good of this song hides the bad, 
We can render the discords some way 
That they mix with the harmonies glad 

And are lost. 
And a song that is sung in this way 
Is more sweet to the ear and the mind, 
For the chords that are borne by the wind 

Are the rhymed. 

If you look with unsophistried eyes 
The affairs of this life harmonize, 
And the taint of a discord is hid 

By the joys. 
For the Christ in His sojourn on earth 
Suffered pain and adversity's thrust, 
So we '11 work and forget the bad 

As we trust. 



THE MATCH BOY 



"T* WAS but a lad, a lonely lad and young, 
Too young- to march the weary miles 
to sell 
The matches which he holds, but needs re- 
quired. 
He sits all-tired beside a stone- walled well. 



The country 's bare from winter's raging 
war, 
The evening 's cold, and stars and moon 
belie 
The snows enshrouded deep within the 
clouds. 
That watch with eager eyes the time to 
fly. 

"My mamma 's with those stars, but papa 's 
not, 

(Ml, I 'm so 'fraid he never will be there! 
Why can't I find a way to walk up there? 

The people sing about a golden stair. 



The Matcli Boy 189 

"They must have matches up in Heaven," 

he said ; 
"I hecred a wise man say some stars was fed 
With light by friction's force, and that 

word 's wrote 
On each these little boxes that I tote. 

"Oh, one 's gone out! Sometimes my 
matches fail ; 
They ought to hold their hands to stop 
the wind, 
It must be blowin' hard up there, — and me, 
I 'm cold, so cold, and no warm place to 
find. 

"I wonder where 's that star that mother 

knew? 
She said it showed to lead the shepherds true 
When Christ, the babe of Bethlehem, was 

born, — 
Why cannot I to-night in TTcaven be born? " 

The morning came all dressed in mf)urning 

white 
That He had sent, the birthright of the 

night. 
The village church-bells rang for Easter 

prayer, 
All Nature lay in worship still and fair. 



igo The Match Boy 

Upon the road they found the little lad ; 
With solemn rite they laid him with the 
dead, 
And noticed on the face so usually sad 
In place of frown a sweet smile reigned 
instead. 

The stars that hid before the snow had led 

The weary one to worship at His feet. 
Their work completed then they mournfully 
fled 
And hid their heads within their blue 
retreat, — 

Too tender to watch the undertaker cloud 
While weaving slow his soft and pure-white 

shroud. 
And all was quiet on that Easter morn, 
But joy in Heaven for there a saint was born. 



THE WRECK 

IN sea-sand steeped all but the deck, 
* washed white, 

And bathed in moonlight, silvery blue, 
There stands a victim of some stormy night. 

That mocking wind thus homeward blew. 

The scene is one to wake the saddened 
thought, 

A boat in black upon a snow-white strand, 
And sea ashine in silver light, moonwrought. 

That leaps in diamond fire to land. 

I read from rotten timbers there a tale 
Of homes, and many mothers there 

Who watched and waited for sons' home- 
bound sail. 
Till sorrow touched with snow their hair. 

I 've many friends who 've gone the same 
sad way — 
This scene recalls their fate to me. 

191 



192 The Wreck 



How large a share of sorrow can we lay 
Against the all-avenging sea ! 

The cold, stern, unrelenting sea stayed still, 
But silent claims from fight the spoils, 

And mourning mothers, weeping wives, 
ne'er will 
Bring back the lost from out its toils. 

The stars look sadly down, the waves break 
low. 

And round the wreck in soft tones sing. 
They sorrowed seem for what they 've done, 

And tears of foam upon it fling. 



THE HEAVENLY SOLDIER'S HOPE 

\1 /HAT joy we '11 feel when, fighting o'er, 
"" We march to Heaven for mustering 
out, 
And arms and armor need no more, 
But march to time's triumphant shout. 

No more the tempting foe to fight, 
No more to brave the battle's blight, 
But ranged 'fore God in sage review 
Receive for work our well-earned due. 

Meet eulogy for banners borne 

Unwavering through the stirring strife, 

That tell in lines unstained, though torn. 
That God was leader all through life. 

And then back from the weary war 
We '11 meet our mothers waiting there, 

We '11 find them standing on the shore 
With all our loved ones over there. 



193 



A TRAGEDY 

/^NE time these two were lovers true, 
^^ And now they meet again. 
He came the cold heart back to sue 
That all might be as then. 

His pleading pulsed with eloquence 

That only love can give, 
But she with torturing diffidence 

Refused to bid him live. 

He turned to hide a shaming tear, 
Oft wooed, ne'er won, by fear, 
Then made with manner dazed and slow 
The brave resolve to go. 

She took his sword from off the stand 
(Placed there when he came in) 

With laughing lips and careless hand, 
That he had hoped to win : 

Held out the blade, which he refused, 
Standing as one that mused. 
194 



A Tragedy 195 

" Why don't you go, why do you wait? 
I 'm tired, 't is growing late." 

'T were better had she plunged the steel 

Into that manly breast, 
Than words which time or art can never heal, 
'T were better, ah, yes, 't were best. 



"MEDITATION, DAY AND NIGHT" 

•y HROUGH the weary work of day 

I am thinking, Lord, of Thee, 
And at night these sweet thoughts stay, 
For I know Thou think'st of me. 

Whether in the forest's gloom 
With the savage beasts around, 

Or sit safely in my room, 

I have always there Thee found. 

Ever present in my thought. 

E'en when most absorbed in work; 

For what work 's without Thee wrought? 
In all work life-lessons lurk. 

In the morning, noon, and night 

On Thy word I meditate, 
So 's to aid the battle fight 

And help to Heaven's gate. 



196 



DESPAIR NOT 

Xl/HY weep o'er wasted past, 

A shadow sad o'er future cast, 
For one mistake make life all rue? 
There 's ever something we can do. 

To nurse regret through hours long 
For one lost act of good — 't is wrong. 
You failed to help, — try something new : 
There 's ever something we can do. 

If offered help but brings disdain 

God knew your thought, 't is still your gain; 

Others still ask for love from you : 

There 's ever something we can do. 

We sometimes turn God's love away: 
He sighs, but bears with us each day. 
Assist, it makes no difference who, — 
There 's ever something we can do. 



197 



EULOGY 

I WOULD not be a flower 
* And grace the loveliest bower; 
I would not wish that fame 
That lauds and prints your name. 

'T is poor, poor pay at best, 
Nor doth respect attest, 
Set up for common show 
To find out what you know. 

I 'd rather be a tree 

In lonely woodland glade, 

That 's seen its sixth century, 
Its quiet history made. 

And there in neighbor's love 
I 'd turn my head above; 
My deeds make no great sound, 
But blessings give all round. 

'T is all we ask of you — 
To give our work its due. 
198 



Eulogy 199 

We give you outlined thought 
On which to think you ought. 

The greatest of rewards 

Would be, to see you all 
Lead to the Lord and Lord's 

In answer to our call. 



THE SARACEN TO HIS SWORD 

"/^H, model of the new-born moon, 
^-^ Make low my foemen's tide, 

As in the mighty sun at noon 
The rose fell faint and died. 

The hated horde have halted just in view, 

As sharks around a dying crew. 

"Remember how you served my sires 

And flash once more to-day, 
Like sun upon the gilded spires 

When Allah calls to pray. 
And may thy sickled form new courage gain 
To reap the hated hostile grain. 

"Thy handle 's set with lucky-stones, 

May their color e'er be bright! 
Like those around my fathers' thrones 

That shine with celestial light. 
Remember those who wait our return with 

fame — 
Thou wouldst not let it be in shame! " 



?op 



THE MEXICAN MAID 

'X'HE raven tresses flowing full and free, 

That traitorous rebosa cannot hide, 
Cast twilight shade on the rounded beauty 
Of her face, where fleeting feelings peep 
and hide. 

And eyes e'er holding commune with the 
mind 

Reflect each momentary emotion there, 
Or as toward some retreating theme inclined 

Defy all reading efforts thoughts to share. 

Ah, twilight is your realm of life, O maid, 
Forerunner of a beauteous tropic night, 

When brave romances mounted on the shade 
Come chasing after fast retreating light ! 

But fickle knights they are but twilights 

too, 
And soon retreat to draw their swords and 

woo 

201 



202 The Mexican Maid 



In other ranks and other reahns where shades 
With trembHng shadows mark the fickle 
maids. 

The tropic twihght is its moonlight eve, 
A tremor 'tween the daylight and the 
dark. 
Its love a nervous passion cannot weave. 
The restless rose can't keep its beauty- 
mark. 



THE MEETING-HOUSE 

HERE by the brook that only hath re- 
pelled 
The mark of flying years, where spot is 

knelled 
With ugly stumps that once were towering 

trees, 
The meeting-house still stands, but ill at 
ease. 

The door that welcomed, in the years gone 

by, 

The simple folk, all friends, come here in 

prayer, 
By stormy vandals sieged doth prostrate He, 
That through the breach go rushing here 

and there. 

The conquered countries all their fashions 

take 
From victor's mode, and elements here 

make 

203 



204 The Meeting-House 

The changes suited to their different style, 
But kindly give our work long years of trial. 

Where hung the muslin shades are tapestries 
Like those that on our panes the frost doth 

freeze, 
And busy spiders take the place of hands 
Long folded in sweet rest at death's de- 
mands. 

The circled woof that orb-knitters have 

spun. 
Concentric circles round and round they run ; 
Or conic nests of finest textile braid, 
That weavers of the funnel-web have made. 

And they who used to frequent this dear 
place 
Have spun each one his web and circled 

by, 

Wider, farther, until he ran his race, 

Then crawled toward natal homestead, 
there to die. 

From chimney wrinkled, bent with age, 
I hear the thunder of the nesting swifts, 

Each at unwelcome visitant in rage 
A discontented murmur noisily lifts. 



The Meeting-House 205 

The floor is covered with a brocade brown, 
Embroidered with a neat design, well 
made 
By feet of curious crows who 've wandered 
in 
To aid the wind-blown dust a carpet spin. 

Between where crows'-feet left their fleur- 
de-lis 

A tinier tracked design I knowing see ; 

The mice have also craftsmen then become ; 

They usually strive all handiwork to o'er- 
come. 

And we who met here in the years gone by 
We crows'-feet bear, for Time don't always 

fly. 
These interspersed with deep-drawn lines of 

care 
That speak of changes our poor lives must 

bear. 



DREAMS 

\1/ITH closed eye 
I sit and sigh 
When day is done and night is nigh, 
And eyeless see 
What eyes can't see, 
Those sweet, sad scenes of memory. 

And rove again 

O'er moor and fen. 

Or run the wildcat to its den. 

What frightens me 

Then gave but glee ; 

Eye followed by the foot so free. 

Or Dover's doves 
Which the sailor loves; 
From songless cries the shrillness dies 
Though seas between, 
We 're hard to wean, 

Their song 's most sweet in memory's scene. 
206 



Dreams 207 

The mountains high 

That pierce the sky, 

Half held by earth and half by sky, 

All give a stone, 

Of life a part loan 

To inlaid structure of mine own. 

The past prepares 

From present cares 

Her banner bright; that bears 

Us through to-day. 

Thus rest find I, 

Till at the Dawn, whose night is nigh. 



HIDDEN BEAUTY 

TJOW oft from verdure-vault I 've dug 
* ^ Some bashful beetle or a bug, 
Whose bright empurpled coats refuse 
The sun's light in prismatic hues! 

All men have eyes and yet see not 
One half the beauty of the earth, 

But with the trustlessness of Lot, 
From plenty toil to gain a dearth. 

How oft a dusty, time-soiled tome 
Found in some uninviting home 
Hath willed a wealth of thought and wit. 
That in our Senate now might sit ! 

Most beauty 's modest, must be shown 

Appreciation and respect. 
Repelling all who come alone 

With curious eyes and deference neglect. 



208 



BOATING SONG 

/^UR sails are gently filling, 
^^ Blown by the breeze, 
The spray o'er bow distilling, 
Its milk-white frieze. 

Our bark o'er foam in flying 

Sails silvery seas ; 
As if mean earth defying, 

To Cloudland flees. 

A song in joy we 're singing 

To white-winged craft ; 
Blest bird, us homeward bringing. 

To loved ones waft. 

And now our sails we 're trimming 

For landing sweet ; 
O'er still, smooth water skimming. 

Our friends to greet. 



209 



NATURE'S OWN NATION 

T'HE smoky sky of an Indian-summer's 
day 
A hazy halo o'er the fields now weaves, 
Like camp-fires built by squaws on rainy 
day, 
When wet had drenched the brush and 
leaves. 

And fancy finds me forms of flying men 
Pursuing through the woods the frightened 
deer. 

'T is now the braves, so like the winter wren. 
Were wont to gather food for winter drear. 

And harvested stacks of corn arranged in rows 
Make ideal wigwams for imagined men ; 

And round the top the silk-entasselled bows 
Seem trophies set in tepee's top again. 

But long since gathered to their fathers they, 
And council's fire that blazed in former day 



Nature's Own Nation 211 



Hath burned away ; a saddened few attest 
That most have gone toward setting sun and 
rest. 

Dear Nature's noblemen were they, whose 
mail, 
Simplicity, was guard against all sin, 
Till on their flower of purity the hail 

Of white man's curse came beating, blight- 
ing in. 



PRAYER 

\ 11/ HEN to your Savior you have prayed 

All sorrows quickly fade, 
As stone-set plant in scorching sun 
Before the root 's begun. 

For sorrow 's not akin to man, 
Though met in every clan, 
It is an incongruity 
In souls that would be free. 

In childish grief our mothers soothe, 

When more mature we pray ; 
How she the wrinkled cares would smooth, 

Recall the smiles to play ! 

'T was mother dear who taught us prayer, 

She too is now above. 
How meet to seek for comfort there, 

Drawn by a mother's love! 

Perhaps we too will soon be there 
To talk without a prayer; 
But still 't is sweetest sort of speech 
That wisest tongues can teach. 



2X2 



THE OCEAN OF LIFE 

T^HE midnight moon so clear and bright 
Withdrew his cheerful, welcome light 
Behind a smothering fleecy cloud 
That not one escaping ray allowed. 

A shiver seemed to penetrate 

To Nature's heart, and all was cold, 

As on a joyous summer fete 

When village funeral bell is tolled. 

I saw an object in the tide 

And drifting slowly toward the shore; 
Each sullen wave upon its side 

Pushed painfully toward the waiting shore. 

As warrior 'gainst o'erwhelming force 

Slowly, reluctantly retreats ; 
One billow broken with a foaming course, 

But quick succeeding next defeats. 

Sometimes a dash of silvery spray 
Shows white upon the gloomy wave, 
213 



214 The Ocean of Life 



As nature-sculptured salt display 
When light is born to virgin cave. 

By all-resistless mighty strength 
The tide-tossed object lies at length 
Upon the resting, strifeless strand, 
To wonder why it was averse to land. 

Upon life's ocean I am tossed 

And drifting slowly toward the shore. 

The years, life's waves, with will uncrossed 
Waft me by their resistless war. 

And why, then, should I struggle so 
At leaving this dark, gloomy life? 

Why not drift calmly with the flow 

Toward place of peace from stormy strife? 

Ah yes, if 't were not for the joys 
That sometimes soothe the tiring noise. 
The occasional dash of silvery spume 
That brings relief in usual gloom ! 

Each new succeeding 3^ear propels 
Me nearer to the bounding shore; 

Each clearer than the last foretells 
That soon I '11 tossing drift no more. 



THE HAPPY DEAD 

T^HE tomb said to the crumpled note 
^ That lay beside its mossy mound, 
Forsaken on the unrespecting ground, 
Where dew-drops tinting on it wrote : 

"Why hast thou those sad tears at dawn. 
When all should wake refreshed with joy? 
If thou wert I, thou trifling toy, 

Thou 'dst have cause smiles for grief to pawn. 

"I hold a mother loved and mourned, 
And sorrowing children gather here, 
Console each other, drawing near. 

As mutual loss is felt and mourned." 

The note replied: "Beneath my fold, 
In neat and pretty girlish script. 
Lies greater grief than yours, O Crypt! 

A heart, a living heart, but cold. 

"A plea for life, with this reply 

(And written to a school-girl friend, 
215 



2i6 The Happy Dead 

She thought his heart thus more to rend), 
'I '11 bother not his feigned tears dry.' " 

The tomb grew thoughtful for a while: 
"My dead rest peacefully with God; 
Your writer soon with new love shod 

Will with contempt on grieving smile. 

"Your mourner knows no fellowship 
To dry his tears at sight of theirs. 
Mine pitying cannot make repairs, 

Yours scorning will not mend the slip." 

A breeze that had till now stood still 

To listen to the sad note cite, 

Came sighing through the trees, and light 
Replying sighs the leafed tomb fill. 

With thanks for pity, farewells said, 

The note went hand in hand with breeze 
Beneath the weeping willow trees, 

And left the tomb with its happy dead. 



w 



UNLOVED 

'ITH spur of loneliness I strayed 

To Nature's throne in a courtly glade 
Where twining boughs gothic arches made, 
To seek her thankful accolade 
For faithful following through the year, 
But even this glad seat was sere. 

And destitute in this wide world 

Of loving friends, aimlessly 
I wandered far. My hopes all furled 

And life a calm, no cheer for me. 
No wind to waft me on my course. 
And naught with wish of forward force. 

Where hides that one that walked with 

me ? 
How oft we sat beneath that tree 
And saw the squirrel seek the nut ! 

What, oak, and thou art grieving too ! 
Some forester has cruelly cut 

The twining vines that loved you. 
217 



2x8 Unloved 

Unloved, what does thy strength avail? 
The snow of sorrow, pain's sharp hail 
Will prey upon your lonely heart, 

And unprotected by the love 
So tender, yet of mighty art 

To cheer, how long wilt stand above? 

Already you and I commence 
To show the strain of grief so tense. 
Our heads once so ambitious, proud, 
By smiles uncheered are burden-bowed; 
But grief is not the only frost we bear 
Or blighting ban that we must wear; 

'T is hard enough that Nature takes 
What Nature nurtured, Nature makes. 
Our hearts were not so pained if they 

So frail were faded by the frost ; 
That 's Nature's law. But borne away 

To trim another's home at our life's cost! 

Their beauty lured some woodman's blade, 
Who placed them in a palace grand, 

A prettier home than lonesome glade, 
Wrapped now at winter's stern demand 

In sombre hues. With summer's bloom 

Their yearning hearts may gain the wintry 
gloom. 



Unloved 219 

Old oak, our strength amounts to naught ; 

'T is well the snows are eating fast 
Into our hearts, and soon by work they 
wrought 
With all our strength we '11 He at last. 
The vines then penitent will grow, 
But begging eyes but cumbent trunks will 
show. 



GEOLOGIC MAN 

A LL men resemble geologic rocks : 
^"^ As each upholds on earth his form 
Each shows by life he leads his origin 
And whether born mid flowers or in storm. 

A sedimentary rock by settling sand 

Is formed, and many men by gradual 
growth 
Gain wealth of wisdom. By slow study 
stand 
Above the world where those of quicker 
growth 
Like Bible's rootless plant ne'er rise so high. 

The noblest character is ever formed 
But step by step, and grain on grain is laid. 
And hardened down by many tempests 
stormed. 

Organic rocks are made of mingled mites 
That once were living forms. Some men 
are made 



Geologic Man 221 

Of efforts by another given. Each trait 
Admired shows fossilled forms that cannot 
fade, 
Of his mother or a minister's strong stress. 
Within each goodly deed we read a tale 
Of those who jointly strove this soul to bless 
And form a solid character that would not 
fail. 

And last, not least, are they who constitute 
The igneous class of rock. They 're 

formed by fire, 
And under pressure are prepared, the root 
Of life that 's destined to take station 

higher 
In after years. When danger oft we meet 
We can more safely its known perils greet ; 
And man whose life has under fire been 

formed 
Knows best defense when by same foe he 's 

stormed. 



I LOVE HIM YET 

/^NCE more hath God thought best to 

^-^ wound, 

Again defeat my efforts crowned ; 

He does not hate though He has frowned; 

My heart is set, 

I love Him yet. 

And if my sorrows steadily grow 

I '11 try and make my groanings low, 

That all my sufferings may not show, 

Like Job be set; 

And love Him yet. 

O Lord ! I thank Thee for this cross 

And count as gain all earthly loss ; 

Thou sayest there 's gold for all this dross; 

My heart is set, 

I love Thee yet. 



TO LOVE 

"T^O love is like the picking of a rose, 

Although unseen, perhaps, the thorn 
is there ; 
Perhaps our soul will soon in sorrow's throes 
Contend, that now pulsates in bliss. 

And though the former perfume still remains 

When many years have passed 'tween now 

and then, 

That can't atone for faithful thorn that pains 

When memory's wind blows sweetly near 

again. 

To love is like the picking of a rose, 

And after — lonesome is the stem and sad. 

They say "Inanimate, can feel no woes," 
What do they say of me when I am sad? 

"His heart is dead," they say where'er I go. 
A dead thing throb and burn and pain me so? 
A coal may sear e'en though it does not glow. 
Ah little, oh how little do they know ! 



223 



MY MOTHER 

"~P IS the sweetest word we know, 
And it 's one we whisper low, 
For it thrills through every heart 
Its peace and rest to impart. 

There are those who 've done great deeds 
Of which one in wonder reads, 
Women who seemed the world to please, 
But my mother 's not like these; 

But her deeds are sung above 
And she 's thought of but in love, 
For she 's quiet and so sweet ; 
If you could my mother meet ! 



224 



ROMAN RELICS IN ENGLAND 

D ENEATH yon Druid altar shade we view 
The wondrous works the invaders 
wrought with toil ; 
Aye, conquerors, though their songs were 
short indeed. 
Those vantage-points in this barbaric soil. 
The cultured strongholds, homes of victors 
then, 
Part winners then, part winners doomed 
to stay ; 
In land where e'en the storms and winds 
were men 
To guard their almost virgin shore; the 
way, 
'Cept by the rumors merchant-strewn, un- 
known. 
And rocks and reefs formed potent navies 
there. 
Assailed the tortured ships; by Nature 
thrown ; 
Discouragement was near, but brought 
no fear. 

IS 

225 



226 Roman Relics in England 

The bravery borne in righteous cause is 
blest, 
But bravery backed by tyranny is curst ; 
And now these mighty walls are laid to rest ; 
The forts that scorned the foe's attempt 
to burst 
Have ivy-conquered sunk to self-same state 
'Fore Nature made them rock, but else 
than war 
Hath left its signa slumbering here: 

For wicked luxury leaves in rock-formed 
lore 
A tale of times when pleasure was a trade ; 
The massive baths whose grandeur e'en 
now lives 
To claim its comment just; but man ne'er 
made 
The work that bore the buffets Nature 
gives. 

And now with powers that once prevailed 
o'er all. 
Whose mandates made the world in trem- 
bling bow, 
Its tools to harmless dust ignobly fall, 
To garnish graves in efifigy that hold 
The nation named with every name but 
"Good," 



Roman Relics in England 227 

And graced with every god but Christ. 

The gold 
And purple now are turned to green ; where 

stood 
The cohorts, crows and ravens wheel and 

flank. 
These works are books, the men the pages 

old, 
And long since closed, they lie upon their 

rest. 
Where many years have moulded o'er and 

dressed 
Them deep in dust. Unused though print 

grows never dim. 



FATHER 

I 'VE mentioned father once before, 

There 're those in weary world of ours 
We like to linger with far more 

Than we have hours. 
This noble man is one to whom 

Close study makes one closer cling; 
The more we know the more we wish, 

'Mong men a king. 
His work to cure and comfort ills 
And his delight do what God wills. 
A pain seems light, our suffering 's still 
As he steps o'er the sill. 



228 



A STONE FROM SOLOMON'S 
TEMPLE 

A FRAGMENT found by friends and 
given to me, 
That I with it as keystone build an arch 
To span the stream that now is most a sea, 
And block for moment brief Time's on- 
ward march. 

The co-essential fir and cedar fade, 

And e'en the walls of your strong substance 

made 
Now lie in attitude of humble prayer. 
From persecutions more than they could 

bear. 

The earth sailed seven times around the sun 
While workmen wrought to rear your 
stately walls. 
But many, many times that seven she 's run 
'Fore your completely conquered struc- 
ture falls. 

229 



230 Stone from Solomon's Temple 

In silence shaped, then doomed to under- 
go 
The siege of turbulent times and sadly 
scarred 
By desecrations all-unearned. And slow 
Thy virgin purity was mournfully marred. 

And now once more in sleeping silence 
cloaked, 

The changeful course of your long life re- 
voked, 

The death as peaceful, quiet as the birth, 

For the longest trial of trouble 's like a girth 

And must possess two ends. Our soul 
Departing on a new and unknown role. 
With sorrow sick will soon resign the course 
And seek the comfort, rest from former 
source. 

This stone may aid me build a Bridge of 
Sighs 
O'er which my thoughts, by memory pris- 
oners held, 
Now march with solemn step and downcast 
eyes, 
To mourn the once surpassing fane, now 
felled. 



Stone from Solomon's Temple 231 

The wise and good king had me not in mind 
When by his building-orders thou wert 

mined, 
But friends with whom I have a place in 

heart 
Have given this gem from history of art. 

'T is not the cost or rarity we prize 

In gifts, but halo cast by loving thought ; 

Our heart remembering kindness helps the 
eyes 
And speechless appreciation 's wrought. 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PIECE OF 
COAL 

'XIT'HEN Nature made this world for man's 

abode 
She many, many modes of structure tried. 
And each unsuited to our varied wants, she 

strode 
With dire destruction o'er her work; naught 

did abide 
But ruins of the former plan, which hid in fear 
'Neath new-laid layers of earth, made map 

of old so clear. 
A feathery fern that flourished in a pretty vale 
In time of Acrogenic Age, when flowers paid 
By family fealty to the fern, stretched fronds 

so frail 
Appealed to Nature for its life. Now Nature 

made 
Her mind unwavering to change the present 

plan. 
And fern, though now a prince of plants, 

felt self-same ban 
232 



A Piece of Coal 233 



That wrecked the poor Plebeian plants and 
chance-grown weeds ; 

For Nature thought that she could make in 
members modified 

A fern of form very near the same, more 
suited to our needs. 

But Nature, although sometimes seeming, 
is not cruel, 

And felt compunction at the slaughter of 
the ferns. 

She carefully wrapped them in an e'er- 
enduring case, 

And mummies made. As Nature each suc- 
ceeding spurns 

That age assists to hide the frightened ferns. 

Thus hunted long the fern, like a suspected 
man 

In abject terror starts at sound of each con- 
demned plan. 

Her disposition gradually changed from lov- 
ing, tender, kind, 

Till now a cold (coaled), hard character we find. 

And what a change ! From living beauty 
bright to black 

And dirty mass, inelegant, and dead. We 
hack 

As vandals these remains. 'T is even thus 
with men 



234 A Piece of Coal 



Reduced to misery in their sins, we never 
think 

That once they were not so. We, spurning, 
deeper sink 

In degradation's mire. Disease and death 
and sin 

We can o'ercome, but ne'er discouragement. 
We win 

Sometimes a perfect fern from out the black- 
ened mass ; 

These fossils teach that darkest coat may 
hold a heart. 

That all is never without hope. When 
people pass 

Think on the tale of wronged fern. Play 
not the part 

Of covering, hiding him within his sins with- 
drawn. 

Ah, Nature, thou art strange but just! 
Things live, then die ; 

We have an imitation of this spoken-plant 

Will each succeeding era bring before His eye 

A changing life till meet in form to dwell on 
high? 

No, blessed thought, "we " trivial types of 
then forgotten age 

Have been enrolled upon the Revelation- 
promised page. 



A NAME 

"\17E often hear a name 

Like one on Memory's page. 
That prints the scene the same 
As happed in younger age. 

'T is but a name, but bears 

To mind a lost, loved face; 
One who that same name wears 

That years cannot erase. 

'T was but a name, but bound 
By Memory's power it grows, 

And each succeeding feeling 's drowned 
As clearer visions rose. 

We cannot e'er forget 

The past, for Memory stays 

When these known names are met 
And sings of yesterdays. 



235 



VOICES 

T IKE wood-dove calling to its mate 
^ Just when the day is dying, 
Resistless sounds that cannot wait 
I hear the loved ones calling. 

Sound softened by the distance great, 

So far and yet so near me. 
When eve sets forth her quiet state, 

I hear the tones so dreamy. 

The phantoms of a dream held fast 

And wrapped in reality ; 
Niobe-like to forms that last, 

But tears mar not their beauty. 

The voices of departed call 
From favored place in glory, 

And 't is not such a wide, wide wall 
That separates them from me. 

Call on, Oh voices soft and sweet. 
Your hopeful yearned-for wooing, 

For soon I '11 turn my weary feet 
To where the saints are calling. 



236 



SONNETS 



237 



FRIENDSHIP 

'T'O thee, love's younger sister, I would 

sing, 
To conquering charms acknowledgment 

would bring. 
A junior sister but in years, in grace 
And strength superior may be. Thy face 
When sweet with smiles makes life no 

troubled task, 
But darkened by a frown, unusual mask, 
Remove thy retinue, the world grows drear, 
The days are lonesome, long, each tick a 

tear. 
To soothe the soul of man thou 'st varied 

forms: — 
The friends we form 'mong creatures lower 

scaled ; 
With Nature that with heredity conforms; 
And man to man, would that it never 

paled ! 
And last within thy graces glorified. 
He, dearest Friend, who loving for us died. 
239 



240 Friendship 

We love to listen to a woodland bard 
Whose songs, though sung in stifling city's 

heat, 
Transpose and blunt our senses trouble- 
scarred. 
And minds oft made extemporaneous feet 
Lead to the restful shade at Nature's side; 
Whose notes, though plaintive piped from 

prison cell. 
Speak us of Freedom in the forests wide. 
Blest bird, trill on your lays that subtily tell 
Our soul to cease its chafing, cheerfully 

wait. 
The squirrel that 's schooled in city way and 

trait, 
Around its model ferris-circle flies, 
Delights and draws the laughter to our eyes. 
Our forest friends are these, by common tie 
Of Nature-kin and common home on high. 

What one with smallest trace of human heart 
That loves not Nature's quiet scenery, 
The solitary spots in unaltered art 
Of God? His only gardens yet unmarred? 
Whose mossy mantled trees not cut or 

charred 
Have yet a semblance of a restful shade; 
And oasis dear in desert man has made. 



Friendship 241 

If such is found, that being *s not a man, 
But offspring of a mad, misguided throng, 
A member of the mirage-led caravan. 
Forgetting Him who guides. The poet's 

song 
The sayings of a seer seek inspiration here. 
'T is here that we can found friendship 

supreme 
With simple piety for common theme. 

For friendship's law is some strong mutual 

bond 
Of sympathy, where she in sight of both 
May discover all her charms. And by the 

bond 
Of natural history hath she linked my heart 
To one who unknown hath inspired this 

lay; 
This tiny tribute work of my poor art, 
A trial to lay materially a spray 
Of laurel in his now all-woven crown. 
But words are dew-drops 'fore the mind's 

great sun 

And all my similes ashamed bow down 

Before my love untold. O honored one, 

I pardon pray, but with me sings the choir 

Of Nature's children, lovers all of thee, 

And I, like them, sing for a word from thee ! 
16 



242 Friendship 

Thou traveller, whose untiring foot is strange 
To scarce a strand, and named in native land 
With love, respect, might I my standing 

change 
And call thee friend? Except because my 

mind 
Is oft with thee? In fame the difference 

seems 
To make me as an Afric sprite, first known 
By thee. And yet because her reserved 

beams 
Shine not for me, shall you from much- 
sought throne 
Of friendship banish me? Aside from spur 
Of golden glory thou 'st an accolade 
Of personal virtue that would win thee 

"Sir." 
Unsheath your sword of Truth, that polished 

blade 
Unsoiled by rust, and thou, O Nature's 

knight, 
Receive me in your train at your side to fight. 

Thou Savior, Prince of Peace, and Wonder 

ful. 
The nearest name we give thee, Lord, is 

Friend ; 
The One who raging storms of soul can lull, 



Friendship 243 

And loved advice in troubled times can lend ; 
Who shares the burdens of a weary life, 
Stands at my side where sounds the thickest 

strife. 
'T is here that Friendship, trained by loving 

man, 
All glorified like Launfal's leper stands 
And, bathed in pure celestial light, from man 
A sweeter, more consistent life demands. 
And God, as doth the earthly friendship, 

asks 
But love given in return for love. Make me, 
O Lord, to work within our mutual tasks, 
A better and a fitter friend to Thee. 



FUTURITY 

T OFT withdraw apart from noisy world 
To reap the joys reflection-sown ; to 

earled 
Estate in Nature's realm, the place where 

peace 
In only kingdom dwells ; there noises cease, 
There chaos is unknown. Since knight by 

love 
And work, no beauty from mine eyes is hid. 
These moments bathed in bliss like that 

above ; 
At sunset wonder what is buried 'mid 
Those golden bars, what beams my life to 

light 
In future time. Those yellow bands so 

bright 
Are signs of joy; what means the mingling 

red? 
Those clouds so often drown the happy 

dyes. 
My hopes increased or lost as fear is fed, 
Thus drawn by silent language of the skies. 
244 



Futurity 245 

Beyond to-morrow's fate, if that 's foretold, 
What then? The farther side of those bright 

bars 
What sort of scene lies lost to visions, cold 
And weak from straining toward the future 

time? 
And must I stroll 'long Stygian banks, a 

shade? 
Or what is worse, come back, the theories 

made. 
To haunt the homes we pretence made to 

leave? 
Ah no ! There is a country far more fair 
Than human minds conception could re- 
ceive. 
And Death 's the dense and thorny path, a 

lair 
Of beasts that, formed by fear, guard well 

the way ; 
In a prairie lies this path; that prairie's 

Life. 
The rest that terminates the working-day 
Must come after desert drear and path of 

strife. 

The evening church -bells call me from my 

dreams, 
But like the ocean when its storm is past, 



246 Futurity 

The billows angry break though gale is gone; 

The action 's ceased though substances long 
last. 

The light of sunset shows beyond the brake ; 

The path of death grows dim. My task to- 
day : — 

To fit me for that final fight, forsake 

The thought of fears. The lode-stone of my 
way 

Is mental sight of city in the sky, 

Where mansions past the power of mortal 
eye 

Our God has gone to seek. I 'm ne'er so 
lost 

In this world's work, where one 's confusing 
tossed 

From care to care, as to forget these hours 

That, lived apart, taste of futurity. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

'T'HOU sacred burial-urn given to the 

famed, 
What world-known men could in thy vaults 

be named ! 
An air of awe fills soul with graver thought 

than wont 
When steeped in thy silence all sublime ; 
Unbroken 'cept by desecrating taunt 
Of noisy feet that strike in poorest rhyme 
Upon thy hollow-sounding, well-worn stones. 
Subtending cells that seal immortal souls. 
Beneath thy dome great men made greater 

scenes, 
Here men were crowned as kings in former 

day. 
Now, now they all are senseless, worthless 

clay. 
Thou tellest in trembling tones and daily toll 
That fame of Heaven not fame of earth 's our 

goal. 



247 



CHILDREN 

/^H, how I love the darling little ones, 
^-^ The only hearts of honor, souls of 

truth! 
In this light-lacking world, light-bearing suns 
That hold the drear discouragment aloof. 
When quiet evening brings the hour of rest 
We gather round the hearth to hear their 

song 
With artless non-dissembled wisdom blessed ; 
We smile encouragement, listen hours long. 
The witty ways they have describing things 
And emphasize with gestures more than 

sweet ; 
Or struggling to our laps, long talk to us. 
Though truly nothing 's said, they 're so 

discreet, 
They mean so much. My thought can't 

form in art, 
But prayers for little folk e'er fill my heart. 



248 



WOMAN 

1WAS about to ask what woman is, 
Then I thought of mother dear and love 

lisped out 
A definition which words can't write. 
' ' Within her tongue the law of kindness lies, 
Says Holy Book. This law with loving light 
Makes world a brighter sphere to our tired 

eyes; 
Her smile illumes our souls and clearer skies 
Of character thus formed before us rise. 
Her careful touch in trimming blessed nooks 
Makes paradise from places once so drear. 
To her for help when tired we turn our looks, 
She points to Him and helps to bring us 

near. 
The woman of this world its ways makes 

bright, 
Without, poor man could find no leading 

light. 



249 



MILTON 

CARTH moans a monody, for Earth hath 
^ lost 

The master minds that sang her songs 
sublime. 

mighty Muse, would I on sorrow's frost 
Could trace with my too bashful finger 

rhyme 
To lay the suited laurel at their feet ! 

1 seek in every known poetic clime, 

I search through Nature's scrolls, a tribute 

meet ; 
Along the shore I stroll in tempest time, 
And view the weeded wrecks, sea-books, 

with awe; 
To learn if Lycidas still lies enchained 
By jealous Neptune's wrath. I nearer draw 
To thee, who mourn 'st a friend on briny 

bier. 
While standing where the ocean's salty 

tear, 
Sobs to me of those / 've laid on self-same 

bier. 

250 



Milton 251 

The sage cathedrals crowned with pious 

awes, 
With ivy-labelled learned walls, outlaws 
Of frivolous world for Puritanic faith ; 
Here too at Inspiration's sacred shrine 
I seek the virgin vows, untainted, pure. 
Once more that organ solemn and divine. 
So deified by thy deathless rhymed crown. 
Reluctant tunes its lofty themes for one 
Like me, but vain and groundless fear, a pun, 
To think that I could grasp, engrave, such 

notes. 
I strain to catch the melody that floats 
Like thirsting Tantalus* tide, comes but to 

hide 
Itself from reach. Thus Munin, muse of 

memory, 
Deigns not give me one worthy word for 

thee. 

By Nature, whom you loved and knowing 

read 
So well, thy praises are most sweetly said. 
The tide with touch well suited to a lute 
Strikes masques from sedges near the shore ; 
The wind, grown tender in the west, finds flute 
In reeds, the Pandean-pipes of Nature's 

corps. 



252 Milton 

To play the pastoral part so loved by thee. 
But Tacita, of silence god, dark frowns 
On me, the only voiceless Reed ; from me 
Withholds the telling of my debt unpaid. 
Unchecked by turbulous times that laid 
Distracting hands on thee, and /still mute! 
You helped to move the tide that Cromwell 

made, 
But still had time to find Fame's modest lute. 

As swimmer, in a tiring tide, seeks rest 
By ceasing efforts, floats, so thou didst wrest 
From pressing cares a time to commune 
With holier themes than those that furnished 

tune 
For broken march thy century cared to tread. 
And last so tired of ceaseless strife thy soul 
Refused to share the light that chideless shed 
Its beams upon chaotic scenes ; then stole. 
Though of the world, to thoughts that dwell 

beyond : 
With rhymfed feet, left prints on sands of 

time 
That we may follow and regain, if lost. 
The path that leads to paradise. Sublime 
The life that ceases not with death, but 

reigns 
Above, and for our sake here too remains. 



FAREWELL 

\17HEN parting 's near, and farewells 
'* must be said 
The tongue is still, 't is time the heart must 

hum. 
The mouth is full of words by feeling fed, 
But speech, as stage-struck, fails the hour, 

is dumb. 
I now depart in Science's sake to seek 
In foreign fields what Nature may have 

stored. 
A farewell floats on every bay, and brook, 

and creek, 
I love them well, and know each sanded 

ford. 
I know the tread of tides that tireless go 
And come. Now ripples on the brooks 

seem timed 
And sob their tunes in measures set and 

slow. 
The saddened reeds to breeze obeisance 

bow, 

253 



254 Farewell 

And he so kind, though kingly powered, 

with rhymed 
Though mournful voice replies, — " We lose 

a friend, farewell." 

The woods, so wrapped in silence that my 

ears 
Seem filled with deafening sound, produced 

by thoughts 
That throb, expression seek. It may be 

years 
Before again I wander through these woods. 
The willows, weeping, whisper to the wind. 
The laurel lisps an "Au Revoir " of love; 
" Auf Wiedersehen " 's by the hemlock 

signed, 
That stoic of the wood. The clouds above 
Compete with earth to form the richest view ; 
And this I soon must leave for other climes. 
Where muses may thereon more beauty 

strew ; 
But things we know and love are wrapped in 

rhymes 
That strangers do not have; this is the 

theme. 
The rhythm that makes life a tranquil stream. 



WHAT A POEM IS 

OONATAS of the bulbul merged in stone, 
*^ Composed, and after statued, bathed 

in tears 
Niobe-like, Each line a fibre flown 
From Circe's mantle ; smile-dissembled jeers ; 
A superficial jest in world of woe 
By one who sneers because once thought it 

so. 

False fetters carved by poets from the gold 
Of Past, that ingot-burdened ship deep sunk 
In sea of Now, that loosen when they 're 
told. 

The tender thread that leads material man 
From labyrinth, with present cares when 

drunk. 
To spirit happiness where he once ran. 



255 



FICKLE GOLD 

T GAZED upon the ocean's golden strand 
* And thought, — how like my sweetheart's 

hair that sand. 
And lo! E'en as I watched each wave that 

came 
Caressed it lovingly, yet drew no blame ! 

And in the field near-by each flower upheld 
Its yellow tresses for each bee to kiss; 
Each golden sunbeam first for that, then 

this. 
Had glances sweet, from none were they 

withheld. 

I sadly turned away and hastened home. 
But confident and boastful that my Love 
Allowed her true affections ne'er to roam. 

Alas, my gold, like wreck-strewn ingot-ore, 

Inviting strangers beckoning above. 

Lay strewn upon the smiles of coral floor! 



256 



A GLIMPSE OF PARADISE BUT 
BREEDS DESIRE 

" ^^NE kiss, my Love, before I sail away 
^-^ Where I shall see no love for many 
a day." 
She was demure, reluctantly she gave, 
But 'gainst a lover's bid what wish can save? 

'T was many years before he sought his own. 
But found her lips were not for him alone; 
Ah worse, were mart for loveless kisses too. 
And yet he knew not whence this coldness 
grew. 

While wandering disconsolate along 

He met a sage who stopped and heard his 

wrong: 
" 'T was bad that kiss of long ago to sue; 

If once a bee to knowledge kiss a flower, 
Unless he soon return to claim his dower 
The wish can't wait, another gets his due." 



257 



"THE SPARROW" 

(Theme : The French for " the sparrow", le moineau, 
being of two roots, literally meaning "little monk" — so 
named from his gray jacket.) 

r\ MIDGET monk of sylvan monastery, 
^^ Thou gray-gowned friar, e'er breathing 

benisons 
O'er rosary beads that dew hangs o'er the 

tree, 
Sing, sing to me! And severing secret's 

string 
Repeat confessions that the leaves confide; 
We '11 then compare and know if these and 

those 
By insects chirped do ever coincide. 
Sequestered from this sphere of sin and woes, 
In heaven's free air polluted, poisoned not, 
Sing, sing and lift my soul to paths you 

tread ; 
Make, make my life as thine sublimest sign, 
Of virgin purity. And let my life e'er be 
As it has been ; let naught seduce e'er me 
Where long I 've trod together with my 

God. 



258 



YESTERDAY AND TO-MORROW 

'T'HE driving-wheels of time, together 

joined 
By unromantic link "To-day," — they roll 
Unceasing on their backward course for 

aye 
But ne'er reverse respective place. I fly 
To former one to shape my simple rhyme ; 
Two tales are told by past and future time ; 
The one is marked with many sorrowed 

prints. 
The other bright with golden dreams. But 

since 
'T is human law to seek what brings most 

pain, 
To dwell on deeds that mark the saddest 

year, 
Our songs, our thoughts, are mostly turned 

again 
To past that from its weary toils repose 
Hath won, but does not gain. Then, here 

and there 
Joys show that far outshine to-morrow's. 
259 



26o Yesterday and To-Morrow 

That repetition now deny ; devoid 

Of faces so familiar to our hearts, 

Thus in the joys that mark to-day a void is 

left. 
We long to stay the wheels of time, 
To start them o'er a more consistent course, 
For in the sweetness of the past the rhyme 
Is sometimes marred. From chances, long 

lost, learn 
What 's not but might have been. We 

scarce endorse 
All parts we played in past; but looking, 

turn 
To memory's mirror, live once more the day 
When Christ commander of our lives we 

chose, — 
And now as earthly day draws to a close, 
The only deed we do not e'er regret. 
The only light in day whose sun is set. 

How oft we long to stay Time's endless 

chain, 
A retrospect to gain ; for morrows come 
Are made to-days ! We, wandering down 

Life's lane, 
Behold the future just ahead, like some 
Our walks on common roads when some 

slow stage 



Yesterday and To-Morrow 261 

Goes laboring just in front, nor leaves nor 

nears. 
Time grows not tired ; not so 't is with our 

years ; 
Soon all will be as yesterdays on earth ; 
We '11 slip the link that binds, to-morrow 

gain, 
And live with Time an endless life. The 

worth 
Of Now we count but naught compared with 

Then. 
We could not place our shoulders to the 

wheel 
If we had not this goal in view. Our work 
To-day is but to long and toward to-morrow 

steal. 



WALES 

DOUGH land of rocks, I love thy moun- 

*^ tain homes, 

Where one can feel the freedom in the air. 

Give me thy simple, sturdy countrymen ! 

I wandered where I would, a home was there ; 

And in thy wilds, from house and town 
away, 

There danger lurks, but how those times 
loved I ! 

The stirring spirit moves me to this day. 

Those times ! We laughed at life and chal- 
lenge cry 

To death. We nothing feared, 't is of the 
land. 

Within thy cliff-formed walls, but wildness 
dwells ; 

The hardy hawk and gull are oft alone, 

For days the only sight of life, the cells 

Wave-worried from the cliffs the only bed. 

I found your solitude with fear ne'er wed. 



262 



FRANCE 

THOU flowered land, my fancy sings to me 
Of thee on pleasure bent. You may 

be right ; 
Some think this world a playground built 

for man, 
Some think not so. But viewed in Beauty's 

light, 
Thou, closely copied Daphne of our day, 
Art scion of all that touches minds of art. 
Thou once held school throughout the earth, 

to teach 
Thine unmatched laws of loveliness. Nor 

wrapped 
Within thyself, to ends of earth dost reach 
The cultured customs, from which our ways 

are mapped. 
Thou 'rt more like maid of fifteen summers, 

age 
Than like the thoughtful, action-weighing 

sage ; 
Spends time admiring features fair to shirk 
The plain but stronger needs of household 

work. 



263 



LIFE 

r\EAR Lord, who gavest and will take 
^-^ away, 

A pure life I have tried to live with Thee; 
Grateful, what though not joy hath held full 

sway, 
Thou gavest that satisfies and comforts me. 
A life that 's tinged with sadness sounds 

more sweet : 
The blocks of marble purest white ne'er 

meet 
Our fancy like the ones with faint drawn 

lines 
Of blue and red. "Then what is life ? " we 

hear, 
"Await for death"? Ah no! These sad 

confines 
Are just to prove, not what we seem, but are. 
But 't is a wait for death and life beyond ; 
We wait the Heavenly Usher's admitting 

wand. 
A life reserved, unknown, with saddened 

tone. 
Can be more good than one in joy and 

known. 



264 



DANTE 

\1/HERE has the world an architect of 

rhyme 
More careful in his measurements and time? 
We read, and before our admiring mind 
Each story grows, each sculptured arch de- 
fined. 
The templed themes sublime cathedrals rise. 
But admiration 's not confined to size, 
For art-embroidered skilfully on these walls 
Of thought, the massive Norman Style in 

verse, 
Nice arabesque in pleasant contrast falls, 
And lessons oft so dissonant and terse 
Escape in music from these walls ; sublime 
As from cathedral choirs arc they. Words 

climb 
By aid of his pen, and peerless form in art, 
Like church-mosacis, pictured texts impart. 



265 



BOTANY 

TO O. M. E. 

"T^ IS not to know the tongue-entangling 

terms, 
To learn from lexicon the Latin class and 

name; 
The books can't tell how rootlets work and 

worm 
To wend their way to weeds and flowers. 

The same 
Cannot explain as can our eyes, how leaves 
From fairy Chlorophyll they gain a gown 
And steal with modest bashfulness like 

thieves 
Into the light ; and startled by the glare 
Of earth, then slower form the flowers fair. 
My too prosaic pen can't paint aright 
The happy hours, not bending o'er a book, 
But strolling through the natural gardens 

bright. 
The woods where beauty nestles in each 

nook. 
Where flowers flash in heaven-born hues be- 

dight. 



266 



MELANCHOLY 

T^HAT I am melancholy, say not so, 

Because my mind to meditation tends, 
Because I 'm no participant in show 
And folly that half the world's sky subtends. 
Grave meditation knows no kin to grief, 
The weeping sage was given to meditate. 
But converses are n't always true. Belief 
That cloaks all thought in moody sable gown 
Is far unworthy of enlightened times. 
That noble face, though furrowed with a 

frown, 
The tutelary tunic that defends 
'Gainst gay temptation's taint, with sightless 

eyes 
That yearned to see their master's prodigy, 
Our greatest song, who calls morose he lies. 

If themes like these made mighty Milton 
grave, 

Though could not cloud his hopeful, cheer- 
ful mien. 

These reachless, lofty topics that I crave 
267 



268 Melancholy 

And count me wise if I can rightly glean 
But coarsest chaff from golden grains of 

fame, 
Can these sit lightly on my laboring brow? 
The sombre suit of lark holds happiest soul, 
Whose lowliness forbids the usual bough, 
Yet in solitude of dawning day he stole 
His entire being gave its homage meet 
To Him who bids us pray in quietness. 
The inner being can have sweetest peace 
Beneath the soberest garb ; the dear caress 
Of God is lost when thoughtful communes 

cease. 



THE ANT 

T^HOU tiny, tireless toiler of the earth, 
* For one iota of that patience blest 
I pray. The will to do a work is worth 
A doubled power to finish it. The rest 
He takes is sweeter in repose aware 
The work to-day is done; to-morrow's task 
Is never burdened with the harrowing care 
Of uncompleted yesterdays. I 'd ask, 
But thoughts divided are, whether the ant 
Is sensible to sound, the secret strange 
That hides the natural bent and binds his 

heart 
Within his work, — a hundred times de- 
stroyed, 
But ever ready he anew to start. 
Though thwarted oft and oft, he 's ne'er an- 
noyed. 



26g 



MY BOOKS 

T^HOSE nooks where man inspired by 
Nature lays 

His notes from her; those imitation worlds 

Where Nature checked in natural course de- 
lays, 

Presents each varied phase for study's sake. 

Devoid of usual rapid change, provide 

For leisure lessons, thus more certain make. 

The stage where men of centuries else for- 
got. 

The drops to form the tide, that eddying 
churns 

And ceaseless sweeps exhausted centuries 
'way, 

React their lives. The school wherein one 
learns 

Mistakes that men have made, to light the 
way 

And show the stones whereon our feet would 
dash ; 

The thoughts transferred from God to each 
man's mind, 

Apostles in disguise ; knowledge refined. 



270 



SOLITUDE 

A T timed intervals, 't is right that man 
^ Should leave degenerating noisy clan, 
Whose actions, thoughts, and words are 

surface-sown. 
And can endure but little stress when grown ; 
To hold commune with promptings of the 

soul. 
Not 'neath Misanthropy's disgraceful flag, 
No thinker sane can serve that sieve-like rag, 
Insignia of deserters from the rank 
Of Meditation's school. On some lone bank 
To sit and in abeyance hold the tide 
Of swirling, rushing life, and stay it still 
While trying to smoothe out its wrinkled 

side 
And make it more a peaceful, stormless rill; 
To learn from thine own self alone His will. 



271 



BEN NEVIS, SCOTLAND 

\yl /HEN Mother Nature planned and made 

this sphere 
She fashioned parts to love of art appeal ; 
She formed those parts which by sublimest 

fear 
Strike senses dumb, by awful grandeur 

shown. 
Deep down within the earth where thou wert 

born 
There Nature ground and fused thy granite 

heart ; 
When thou wert done 't was like a chick 

unborn 
Within the egg. Then Nature gave a start, 
Affrighted shook herself, and crumbling 

crust 
Up through her surface-shell thee towering 

thrust. 
A glorious book, Geology, thou art, 
To hold such gems as Nevis is. By thee 
My thought was led in joy to Nature's 

heart, 
May many more be helped as thou helped 

me! 



272 



MY JONATHAN 

A T Water-Witch a dear home nestles there, 
^*- Near hidden by those Nature-gardened 

hills 
All green, while chorused round that home- 
stead fair 
The thrush and bobolink contest the rills. 
There in that scene that nestles near to God 
A friend resides, — a friend in strongest 

sense. 
In dearest sense, the world hath cognizance. 
How oft those forest aisles with him I 've 

trod, 
In Moses' altar of the wilderness; 
And from the sermons there in simple stress. 
We wandered hand in hand to altar-rail 
Within the Church of God ! And what avail 
That noble character upon my ways. 
How often near the fallen to cheer and raise ! 



18 

273 



THE FARMER 

nPHOU simple soul, my model of a man, 
In careful scale of life does Nature 

place 
Thee lower for lack of linguistry? Or can 
Thy scorn of raiment rich discount thy race, 
Ungilded with adornments much in use. 
That worse than worthless are? So simple 

art 
Thou that no sooner born of brain than told. 
No need to act a part condemned by heart. 
Unlearned except in lore the fields unfold 
The sweet phenomena of God. Indeed 
The Lord speaks oft of farmers in His Law; 
The lessons indirectly taught we read 
From similes there drawn from out the soil. 
Blest be thy simple upward-tending toil. 



274 



THE WISTARIA 

\X 70UND round the trunk that scarce in- 
vites it there, 
But 'chanted by ambrosial charms that snare ; 
It snake-like nestles in the coils subdued, 
Clings lavender-coned Wistaria honey- 
dewed. 
And bees so surfeit with the sweet by score 
Drop Roman-fete-like down ; or as Hessian 

corps, 
Enraptured by the feast, unfrightened fall 
At those so artful winged foes' charge call. 
While thousands sense-sunk in the perfumed 

air 
That virtued steals e'en our stoic minds 
Go humming paeans o'er the cup, aware 
Not that the sweet, in smallest tastes, but 

blinds 
The bitter held in all intemperate draughts. 
It satiates e'en spring, these Wistaria wafts. 



275 



MY MOODS 

DISCOURAGEMENT 

DASS from me, mournful mood, must I 

^ endure 

The pangs of pain, that memory fills my 

mind ! 
Those solemn, awful somethings that im- 
mure 
My soul in sadness, and so tightly bind 
All hope, though she stands knocking at my 

heart, 
My mind, so wrapped in Sadness' walls, 

can't hear. 
Creation seems to mock, and maddening 

dart 
A cynic's sneer, as all-triumphant Fear 
Possession takes and holds me in her grasp, 
'T is now that life is harder borne than 

death. 
The falling Hope looks round for aught to 

clasp ; 
Discouragement with laugh, all demon-like, 
276 



My Moods 277 

Thrusts taunting back the pleading hands of 

Hope; 
She too by law of environment must mope. 

CYNICISM 

What now, another force my faith attacks! 
The mind, in fear, within itself contracts, 
And objects viewed with less capacity 
Appeal less strong. The eyes now pitying 

see 
(They 're servants of the mind) the work of 

man, 
Forever forging but to make his coffin-plate, 
The serious looks, while striving hard. 
And still there 's nothing done ; he feeds but 

Fate; 
All this makes music to my mirth. 
Diogenes, the wisest of the wise, 
Was drawn disciple of this faith, the worth 
Of man's endeavors taught as naught. 
These moods that mar our life us servants 

make! 



FROM THE KETTLE 
ON THE CRANE 



279 



FROM THE KETTLE ON THE CRANE 

Xl/HEN the chill of December invades 

every nook, 
When the dusk of the twilight taboos every 

book, 
Round the open fireplace that contains half 

the room, 
Shedding sunset-like glow through the 

deepening gloom, 
Comes the family confidingly gathering near, 
Like the idle but still weary cattle appear 
At the home-bar of rest when the sun gilds 

the west. 
Enlightening the hour with song or with tale, 
Inspiring the big, but the little folks quail 
At the stories of war that the grand 'ther 

recalls 
As he hears cannonading from the fireplace's 

walls ; 
Or after the youngsters are all tucked away 
And the council consists but of heads old 

and gray, 

281 



282 The Kettle on the Crane 



Then the quiet ensues, each his own thought 

construes. 
Then the fire as an oracle greedily is sought, 
And each ember reminds of some scene that 

has passed ; 
To our minds how these memories come 

trooping so fast ! 
From the kettle crane-hung charms are brew- 
ing for me, 
But unlike Macbeth's omens from weird 

sisters three, 
I can spell but of Past, future dreams now 

but f^ee, 
Like the mists that are made by the caldron 

I see 
But to vanish in air. While it 's brewing it 

sings 
Like the bubbling chuckle of hillside springs 
Or the purling of meadow-brooks o'er mossy 

rocks. 
And their cool tempting fords with the calm 

wading flocks, 
And the farm where our childhood grew 

weary with rest ; 
Bubbling over with dreams that were yearn- 
ing to live. 
In their reaching forgot what for them was 

the best. 



The Kettle on the Crane 28; 



So the seething contents of the kettle o'er- 

flow 
Like a cascade or geyser that gurgling give 
Flecks of foam to the o'erhanging clouds but 

to die 
With a sputter upon the fire, as those dreams 
Like the moths in our warm, youthful energy 

fly 

But to singe their frail wings in the soberer 
beams 

Of maturity wise. Oh, the witchery con- 
tained 

In the caldron that hangs on the rusty old 
crane ! 

And what songs it can sing to the present- 
tired brain 

That call on this sorcerer for potions to lure 

From the past a loved look, or a philter, 
allure 

Responsive smiles from the stern cynic Now. 

With the dusk of the twilight we worship- 
fully bow 

At the altar to try and forget every pain 

In the charms that are cast by the witch of 
the crane. 



WHEN PUSSY PURRS 

TTHERE somehow seems to come a chance 
* When life takes time to rest 
And grants o'er long gone years a glance, 

All peace, but now unrest. 
There seems to float through memory's door, 

Now open wide, a sound 
Of humming bees replenishing their store, 

Fly our Wistaria round ; 
The hum 's akin to that which stirs 
When pussy purrs. 

And somehow too methinks I see a fire 

And mother bending o'er, 
While close beside the warm grate fire 

A kitten's bubbling snore, 
And from the kettle hanging by 

Niagara-like there 's mist 
O'er spout, from whence sometimes the 
waters fly. 
Fall back when fire hath kissed, 
And deep within the kettle stirs 
Like pussy's purrs. 
2S4 



When Pussy Purrs 285 

And whirring like a gramophone 

In prelude to a song, 
The kitten seems to be alone, 

In tunes to past belong, 
The sweetest bard of memory ; 

And thoughts of yesterdays 
From record of the mind go humming free, 

No other music plays 
As oft at eventide occurs 

When pussy purrs. 



THE PHONOGRAPH 

T HEARD a tale not very long ago 

Of dryads living in the trees 
Who sang when wakened by the sunset glow 
A lay that rivalled softest breeze. 

To free this sweetest captive fairy-maid 
One must a magic key turn round ; 

This key was almost sunken in the shade 
Upon the bark and near the ground. 

But he who pitied most would seek the 
most 
To find solution of this song. 
The happy sprite then would reward her 
host 
Ten added years of life and song. 

A learned and a loved countryman 
With ear of genius heard a song; 

Along mechanic's forte his fingers ran, 
Inspired, unwearied, ran along. 
286 



The Phonograph 287 

The chord he found, sometimes he lost the 
chord. 
But tireless searched the whole scale 
through, 
And last in modest niche he found the sword 
To cut the gordian knot in two. 

He chained the humming-gamut of the bees 
And added key-board from the trees. 
Then formed his key from product of the 

mines, 
The joyous dryad he unbinds. 

Not ten years but eternity was given. 

Not years but what is more, 't was fame, 
And listening to the unchained song he 's 
given 
Applauding world bequeaths undying 
name. 



AN OLD MAN'S MUSINGS 

"~P IS growing late, the night is near, 

I think of this without a tear, 
Things are so changed all, all is new, 
I turn to point to loved ones that and this, 
But hear no word replied. Ah true. 
The loving looks of those I miss ! 
For all are long since gone, are gone. 
I silent wait for night's release 
And then reunion at the Dawn, 
This sorrow leave for perfect peace. 

Around the rooms are ranged the books 
And nicnacs memory filled. I read 
From pages of the past these nooks 
From hands so dear now gone indeed 
Took existence sweet. The things once 

bright 
Are pregnant with the past, but worn 
And faded e'en as I. My sight 
Is dim and weak, but sense is born 
To hear from heart the tales now told 
Of times and those I loved of old. 
288 



An Old Man's Musings 289 

'T is growing late, the night is near, 

My race is almost, almost run. 

I think of this without a tear; 

The start was sure 't was well begun, 

The finish holds no haunting fear; 

Through all this life the Lord was ever near. 

The loved ones all are gone, are gone ; 

I silent wait for night's release 

And then reunion at the Dawn, 

This sorrow leave for perfect peace. 



MY ENLISTING 

f LIKE the fireside battle-field, 
* To see the fireplace forces wield 
Their strength against contending cold, 
That howling tells the strokes have told. 

From down beneath the logs I hear 

In volley and in single tone 
Defending shots that charm the ear, 

And say the hearth still holds its own. 

The firing 's ceased, the fight abates. 
The rich red embers mark its close, 

As on a field the sun retreats, 

Ashamed of red on tinged white rose. 

Then we around in bivouac sit. 
The bivouac of the home, to muse 

Upon the battles of the day, 

To-morrow's encouragement infuse. 



2go 



THE FAMILY CLOCK 

T^HOUGH the clock hath struck the hours. 

With a warning sharp and clear, 
I cannot resist the powers 
Of the spirits ling' ring near. 

'Cross the threshold, treading softly. 
With a grave-born fear of sound, 

From the past they come to greet me, 
And silently throng around. 

The call of the clock sonorous 
Recalls these my visitors away, 

And the twelfth of the notes in chorus 
Adds the wraith of dead To-day. 

With a sense of chastening sadness 

Every eve the ticks I tell, 
That ring in the awesome stillness 

Like the strokes of a funeral bell ; 

Or the strokes on the smithy anvil 
Welding bands with fire and blow, 

Beating down with pain and sorrow 
To-day's deeds that now must go; 
291 



292 The Family Clock 

That must go as the silver hammer 
Goes ticking the last nails down ; 

But the flow'rs of memory I gather 
Despite their menacing frown. 

Like the sound of builders' sledges, 
As the ring on rivet and bolt, 

Tiny ticks on the great bark's edges, 
Making strong for future jolt. 

As the click of cavalry hoof-beats 
Leave the known for stranger streets, 
From yesterday each new second weans 
And prepares for us new scenes. 

Like the wearied work of highhole 
Tapping, toiling for its bread ; 

And the message quickens dormant soul 
And ambition nearly dead. 

Soon for me will strike no hours 
But the twelfth-stroke of my life, 

And I, like the faded flowers, 
Will pass into spirit life ; 

Will pass like the faintest echo 
Unheard by the busy crowd. 

As the sounds of a single second go 
When another begins to crowd. 



WAIT 

'T'HERE 'RE thousand souls that pendant 
* hang 

On syllable sad though brief, 
So sad yet sweet it hopefully rang 
Like mist-chimes' blest relief, 
Its tidings dear to sailor's ear 
When harbor's hidden guide rings, 
Myth-siren-like leading sings. 

How many hearts expectant, grave, 

One more farewell hope crave. 

Have heard that glad but tristful tone 

That as the years roll by 

An all-aspiring goal has grown, 

That stifles many a sigh 

And conquers many a cry ! 

Two hearths whose fires that word disjoins, 
Though intermingled grown. 
The sweet society purloins. 
They now must burn alone; 
But unquenched fire of love 
293 



294 Wait 

Still smoulders through the years; 
All unrelieved by tears. 

Upon the sweetest flower, the rose, 

The sharpest thorn-sting grows, 

And "Wait " in all its loveliness 

A hidden pang still holds, 

For fear the rose which it enfolds 

Will fade, unfaithful be, 

When absence makes it free. 

So short and yet so long, so long, 

The waited days are doubly long, 

But still like mariners' guiding-star 

It beams so bright and far. 

A word of hope oft makes man great, 

Controls, directs his fate. 

Results grow brighter as we wait. 



READING 

D EADING is a siesta sweet, 
^^ A calm and restful sleep, 
And Morpheus' recreation seat, 

Where rue can never creep ; 
A fairy fane where woe 's forgot, 
A hermit's peaceful grot. 

'T is here the filmy firmament 
Where dreams and fancies roam. 

The tales of light fantastic bent, 
Or deep and dusty tome 

That with impressive awe imparts 

The Eastern subtile arts. 

A paradise that kind conforms 
To mood that reigns the hour; 

Inciting tale of war that warms 

And strengthens manhood's power, 

Or lays of love that sweetly give 

The reason why we live. 
295 



296 Reading 

The garden where cute wisdom grows, 
Such that entwined with rose, 

The learned ivy unseen works 
Its intellectual spell. 

Upon each page a life-thought lurks, 
As some one rose or fell. 



TWILIGHT ON THE FARM 

ly /I Y library window looks with awe 

^ '^ * O'er cornfield frost-made brown and 

bare; 
Nature beauty-shorn trys to withdraw 
In shame to concealing shadows' care; 
But merciless day, still lingering near, 
Illumes the trees and scattered stalks 
Of corn, still standing without fear, 
The silent sentinels whose walks 
Are confined to swaying with the wind. 

The dawn and twilight pale, the birth 

And death of day, twin brothers are; 

The same gray light enshrouds the earth. 

Things look as dim as though viewed afar. 

Both scenes are restfully subdued 

In sound, in color, and effect ; 

The mind revolts at aught that 's rough or 

rude. 
As oft the thunder storms affect, 
And seeks the restful solitude. 
297 



298 Twilight on the Farm 

Within the room the stove with regret 

Soft glows from out the corner dark, 

At last few seconds of sunset. 

My books try hard to hide themselves 

Behind the undeceiving glass, 

And Caesar's cast, though built of brass, 

Seems leagued with life and leaning looks 

As though intent to speak. The side door 

makes 
A dark abyss, Cimmerian gates. 

But through the double doors a view 

In cheerful contrast to sombre hue 

Of my dark den. There grandma dear 

By candle-light, compared so near 

To lack of light shines as a sun. 

Prepares the evening meal. In fun 

Her tresses twist themselves to curls 

And nestle round her neck like some young 

girl's. 
Though snow stays fast from storms of past. 

When trouble brings a twilight time, 
Casts shapeful shadows on life's scene, 
When e'en my books almost divine 
Too fail to interest me, when green 
And smiling nature looks so brown and 
sad 



Twilight on the Farm 299 

As on that twilight eve, I turn 
To cheerful thoughts of when a lad. 
Encouragements from candle burn 
Whose image 's cast by mirroring Past. 



WHY? 

A LONE I sat in study just at eve, 
*^ My mind on missionary work was bent, 
And saddened thoughts surged on, nor 

would they leave, 
Till God a missionary sent. 
I heard a sound, a stranger's step, unknown ; 
I 'd asked that I remain alone. 
But somehow thoughts would come and 

work would go, 
Thus this intrusion welcomed so. 

"Please buy some lace, good sir," I heard 
her say, 

A tiny tot scarce eight, looked more. 

"It 's some I knit myself, sir, yesterday." 

'T was such a pleading look she wore. 

"Come here, you little one, sit down by me, 

I '11 try a missionary be." 

She came and took my hand in sweet sur- 
prise, 

An eager light shone in her eyes. 
300 



Why? 301 

"I 've always wished to meet a mission-man, 
Something strange I can't understand: 
What makes them go away to a far-off 

land?" 
A tear unseen fell on my hand. 
"They take them things to eat, but I am 

hungry too, 
And mother 's sick, — no food to eat, — 
And Brother Bill, — he died last night, — was 

too. 
Why don't they bring us bread and meat? " 

These simple words to me a lesson taught ; 

The little one inside I brought, 

She would not eat, but wished it home to 

take, 
"So mother 'd eat and soon get well." 
And this I did for my dear mother's sake ; 
And yet still more I did as well, 
I took her home, played mission "just for 

fun." 
Pray same case what would you have done? 

Oft in my study, by the firelight's glow. 
Memory recalls that scene of long ago. 
And oft the simple question "Why " comes 

back, 
But all the answers reasoning lack, 



302 Why ? 

We 've mission work at home, but misery 's 

still around, 
There 's much that *s done, there 's much to 

do. 
What I 'd commenced I 'd try to carry 

through, 
Before I 'd seek new working ground. 



IGNORANT EMIGRATION 

T SILENT stood on Swansea's dock 

And saw what I in words can't find, 
So sad a scene that pathos paints 

Its image on my mind. 
A state by ship was soon to sail 

For far Australia's land, 
And now with sorrow's sob and wail 

The voyagers flock the strand. 

Now they sail through zone of sorrow 

That 's e'er attendant when we part. 
Now too late they dream of morrow; 

Higher nature given sway 
Brings clearer intellectual light 

On dreams of yesterday. 
They see the scheme with reasoning slight 

By whose false flame they came. 

The signal 's given, the crowd embark. 
The smaller sails are set, she steers 

From land soon left but harder gained. 
Alone I sat in tears ; 
303 



304 Ignorant Emigration 

And mournful musings thronged my mind ; 

I seemed to see the waves 
Form from the ripples of the wind 

This people's future life. 

They sailed a sea-sick stricken crew 

In close-cramped quarters stowed, and knew 

No light nor air for nearly half a year. 

Their dreamings once so dear 

They now long since had disappeared ; 

'T was only trouble seen 
In land which now they quickly neared, 

Not what it might have been. 



JOTS FOR LITTLE TOTS 



305 



BABYLAND 

r^OME dear, let 's take a stroll, 
^-^ Yes, hand in hand, 
Your tiny fingers lead 
To Babyland. 

I 'd throw off all these years 

To live with thee. 
And leave the work and cares 

That trouble me. 

And then in silent songs 
We 'd give Him praise, 

With birdies teaching us 
To tune our lays. 

Oh, would n't we romp and run 
While she smiled sweet, 

The mother, dearest one, 
Helps guide our feet! 

I 'd pull poor kitty's tail 
The same as you ; 

307 



3o8 Babyland 

I think it must be fun 
Sweetheart, don't you? 

It must be jolly too 
When taught to walk 

That gravitation laws 
Our efforts balk. 

I 've been a baby once, 
And now I pray, — 

As simple and as good 
E'er be, I may. 



THE BUMBLE-BEES' SONG 

"\"X 7HEN Father Adam was inventing bees 

' Instructions given them were these; 
"With zeal the blossoms in a breezy zone 
To seek in zigzag paths " and that alone. 

They spelled it o'er as we were wont to do 
When mother us to market sent. 

One day a field of cotton caught their view 
That settled in the buds, on business bent. 

The fleecy wool filled up their tiny ears, 
And all they heard was so confused ! 

And even after all these many years 

They 're less by music than by noise 
amused. 

"With zeal the blossoms in a breezy zone 
To seek in zig-zag paths " they sound, 

But only got predominating tone, 

That 's where the bee his orchestra has 
found. 



309 



A CHILDREN'S SURPRISE PARTY 

HTHERE 'S whispered wisdom in the halls, 

And candy-man's unusual calls, 
The words that heads in silence shake 
With thought to make a prophet quake. 

The only truly innocent one 

Was our dear baby girl. Her cuns 

Were tangled by no traitorous thoughts 
That filled the heads of the other girls. 

The hour has come, the foe 's at hand, 
The garrison unsuspecting too ! 

Then in they troop by twos and threes. 
Meet two reproachful eyes of blue. 

As Moses smote the hidden spring, 
The influence of the hour rolls 'way 

The years that hide my childhood days. 
And young again, I join their play. 
310 



A Children's Surprise Party 311 

As deep attentive to the play 
As on the sternest, hardest task, 

Completely in the youngsters' sway, 
Relieved of age's hated mask. 

There 're games with laughter as their goal, 
"To Holy City merrily march," 

"To tack the tail on donkey droll," 

"Or creep 'neath Brooklyn's falling arch." 

These trivial toys we ne'er forget, 

In life a most important part. 
To memory's chord the toning fret, 

For ear that sweetest hears, our heart. 

Then candled cake with knowledge crowned. 
And things to form a feast complete; 

There 's nothing good that 's left unfound; 
The hour with perfect joy 's replete. 

But envious Time, averse to joy, 

Turns round his head and hastens by ; 

When sorrow makes our life its toy 
With demon-smile Time stops to guy. 

"Appreciations" and "Farewells" 
That our wishes ne'er did brew 

Are said, then the happy hearts depart. 
Blessed by two thankful eyes of blue. 



WHAT BABY SAW 

T N a tree-top tall from molesting man 
^ Three tiny play-chestnuts lay, 
In a make-believe burr built of grass, 
But were dressed in a different way : 

For the tiny babe-chestnuts are covered with 
white, 

And no alien hues are there. 
But these three on this tree sported slight 

Tiny touches of blue, bright and fair. 

With the time of the opening came a surprise, 
And the stranger dropped his disguise; 
A little furred form like a brown powder-puff 
In surroundings strange enough 

Stands shaking in wonder at the odd world, 

Half-afraid, tries not to fly. 
And the mother so proud, just returned with 
some food. 
Sits laughing encouragement by. 
312 



LULLABY 

FA EAR birdies, breathe a soft, sweet song, 
'-^ For baby wants to sleep ; 
To keep her thus awake 't is wrong; 
She longs from earth to leap 

To talk with God awhile, 

Already sees Him smile. 

And clouds, you eyelids of the moon. 

Hide fast in sleep her light, 
And bar those beams and blind them soon, 
For, stealing through the night 
In fleeing from the skies. 
They tickle baby's eyes. 

O happy honey-bee, your music cease, 

'T is time you were abed ; 
Or think you in the sleeping rose 
To steal your hunting head ? 
We 're watching you now go. 
Your song makes sleep come slow. 
31.3 



314 Lullaby 

Sleep, baby, sleep, lest morrow come 
'Fore your to-day is done. 
The stars are trying to be dim. 

That small one 's gone asleep. 
The leaves hum murmured hymn, — 

"Sleep, baby, angels keep." 



MY WORK IS DONE 

i^^OME, little one, my work is done, 
^-^ I now would talk with thee. 
We '11 talk about the setting sun, 
The clouds in golden glory ; 

Or of the moon whose mounts give rise 

To stories weird and false : 
Of man who, banished to the skies, 

Must ever flaunt his faults. 



Yes, little one, we must beware 
Lest our life 's ridiculed. 

For we, as all, a precept wear, 
Some life by ours is ruled. 



Or tell me tales you hear in sleep 
That make you sweetly smile, 

Or tell me truths the Lord would keep 
As told in Sacred File. 
315 



3i6 My Work is Done 

"Thou 'st hid these things from prudent, 
wise, 

But unto babes revealed." 
Within those thoughtful, guiltless eyes 

Is wordless wisdom sealed. 

Or teach me how my prayers to raise, 

"For from the babies' lips " 
God said, "Thou hast perfected praise." 

I know thy tongue ne'er trips. 



BABY AND THE CATERPILLAR 

T luv de taterpillar, fuzzy fing, 

Dat treeps an' trawls along de road 
Jus' like de 'ittle pussy-willow fing 

Had dotten loose an' no one knowed. 
I see him tomin' toward my toes, 
Be tarful, don't ou tom too close! 
I 'd like to pat ou, deary ou, 
I luv de tater, taterpill — er 00 ! ! 

It luks like mamma's boa tollar, too, 
All shrinked to a teeny, tiny one ; 
I wonder what would mamma really do 

If her fur tollar start to wun. 
Teep back there from my toes. 
Be tarful, don't ou tom too close; 
I 'd like to pat ou, deary ou, 
I luv de tater, taterpill — er 00 ! ! 

Or like de frizzly four o'clocks ou blow 

To see if mamma wants ou home, 
I dess I '11 try dis taterpillar so, 
317 



3i8 Baby and the Caterpillar 

I tink his curlies need a comb. 
Oh, Oh! How it teeckles my nose, 
I fink I like ou not so close ! 
But I '11 pat ou, deary ou, 
I luv de tater, taterpill — er OO ! ! 



BABY'S SKY 

/^UR baby and I can boast a sky 

^^ More lovely than that which meets 

the eye 
Of wide-awake ocean's upward gaze, 
When little folks long have ceased their plays. 
In the dome of our fireplace straight-arched 

back 
That wintry clouds have tinted black 
The sputtering sparks form starlets bright, 
That shine so real to our dreamy sight. 

One touch of the tongs, it bursts into blaze 
And a thousand meteors fill the sky. 

As oft we 've seen after summer days ; 
And baby appears as though to fly 

As little ones do beyond the sky. 

But if her fingers a star should clutch 

The word they use when stars seem to touch, 
Indeed it would be a syzygy. 

When baby 's tired and the fires burn low 
The sky reflects a dull red glow, 
319 



320 Baby's Sky- 

Like the west on a quiet summer day, 
When the sun has nearly burned away; 
And then baby *s 'neath two blackened skies 
For she 's clouded those two bright blue eyes 
With clouds all black on inner side, 
Though prettiest pink on other side. 



THE MOTHERLESS DOLL 

A H, honored toy, not understanding doom ; 
^^ Untcascd by Sorrow's needle sharp, 
That makes rough the woof of Hfe's loom ; 

Grief's untaught fingers on life's harp. 
That mar the harmonies just given, 
By little angel sent from Heaven ; 
How blessed art thou ! But yesterday 
At twilight, when quietly the day 
Passed away, in awe the night 

Stood still with shaded eye to weep, 
Our babe, our darling, with the light 

Of dying day as if in sleep 
R-eturned to where she just had come. 

Those lips that lisped thee lullabies 
Are now to earthly hearing dumb. 

Would thou couldst help my grief 
appease ! 

These toys that recent held no thought 
And no respect, her death hath wrought, 
They now are signs of one above. 
That plead the care of grieving love. 
321 



322 The Motherless Doll 



I know thou grievest, dost thou not, 

As I the loss of fingers fair 
Of our loving little tot, 

Those fingers' tender, gentle care 
That smoothed the trouble-wrinkled brow, 

The lisping tones sweet comfort gave? 
The morn that lit my life just now 

Seems shadowed by that tiny grave, 
And touched with twilight gloom ; 
And silence throned throughout the room 
So lately filled with baby fun. 
Too mourns the lost life just begun. 



FLY AWAY HOME 

/"^ OME, chimney-swift, and wing your way 

^-^ To your nest, quick fly away! 

Capricious April hath hid her smile, 

For building she did beguile, 

But now the day grows dark and cold, 

Do be warned by what you 're told ! 

The farm-house folk have made a fire 
In the fireplace 'neath your nest, 

Your home of twigs 's in danger dire, 
The young ones are all at rest ; 

Fly then, alarm your sleeping fold. 

Do be warned by what you 're told! 

Lose not a moment, make all haste, 

Your children are all alone. 
The heat it may dissolve the paste 

That binds your nest to the stone. 
And from their high home on the wall 
Li the fire your young may fall ! 
323 



THE HOME OF THE THRUSH 

A HOUSE of needles. Strange, you say? 
■'*■ And well, indeed, you may. 
But deep within the shaded wood 
There lives a bird who wears a hood. 
Within a nest of pine-cone made, 
And coarsest grass that cannot fade. 

But very bashful is this bird, 

Almost as hard to see 
As Santa Claus when to give him word 

You shout with glad but anxious glee 
Into the fireplace chimney dark. 
And sit for hours saying "Hark!" 

And happy is this home alway, 
O'er bills don't bother they. 
(Your father '11 tell you that 's a pun, 
But ask him, just for sake of fun. 
If he worms from his bills all day 
And sleeps at night on honest hay.) 
324 



The Home of the Thrush 325 



When evening dyes the cloth of day 

This tail-er leaves his task, 
To needled home then threads his way ; 

No couch of painted soft damask; 
But joy can furnish any nest 
With comforts good as in the best. 



TRIFLES 



The tares that thrust intruding feet 
Into the sacred courts of wheat. 



327 



EPITAPH TO MY VERSES 

TAGOS of a foolish fancy born, 

The dust of thoughts well worthy in 
themselves, 
In mills of diction all their ^^ozvcr is shorn, 
For thoughts are modest, uncommitting 
elves. 
And, after reading, if a fate forlorn 

You deem deserved, with care place on 

your shelves, 

And dust return to dust. And o'er them 

write : — 

Tuned by a traveller whom roams inspired, 

But Nero-like no nearer fame, though light 

Of biirnhig energy by impulse fired 
Illumed the path ambition made so bright. 



329 



OUR INHERITANCE 

PjAME NATURE willed a wreath to men, 
'-^^ One side she wove of poppies red, 
Dear consolation's sign; and then 

The other bound with brambles dread, 
That wear insignia of remorse. 
Capricious maid, she knew not of its force, 
For poppies soon will disappear and fade, 
But brambles do perennial life parade. 



330 



THE SHEARS OF ATROPOS 

O OME lives should think it a blessed thin^ 
^ That shears that cut their string 
Are not the kind for button-holes! 
That she don't measure by their souls 
And cut to fit what they put in ! 



331 



MY FIREPLACE 

|V A Y warmest and my truest friend, 
^ " ^ How oft we sit together, 
With sparkling dialogue defend 
'Gainst critic's chilling weather. 

I oft have tendered you my rhyme, 

Afraid to show another; 
When I to comic verse would climb 

I feared that you would smother; 

Or some sarcastic ode relieved 
You grew so cold and gloomy, 

Although "put out," I most believed 
You but moaned the lost fame with me. 



332 



SAMBO'S TROUBLES 

NOW Liza, jus' you listen 
Till I 's told dis story you, 
Listen car'ful so 's you '11 hear, 
For it beat me, 'deed it do. 



"Las' night I druv de massa 
To de lectur' in de hall; 
'Now, Sambo,' says de massa, 
'Har 's some money, you come, too.' 

"So 's I went in to hear dat man, 
An' hars him talk such stuff 
Dat 'fore he fru dis nigga say: 
'Jus' let me go, I 's hed enuff.' 

"But massa say dat I no go. 

So 's I listen, scared clean fru. 
For dat ol' man he do talk so 
'Bout things on arth and things below. 
333 



334 Sambo's Troubles 



"He 'tol us 'bout the Atom 
Infinit and could n't be seen, 
All things, includin' Adam, 
Done start by dat same thing. 

"When I druv de massa home 
I looks out very car'ful like, 
Fo' he said dat Atoms roam 
In eb'ry thing we see. 

"I went to bed, but I 's no sleep. 
So 's out I got my bigges' gun 
An' sets me up a guard to keep 

(With plenty room so 's I could run). 

"Las' sees an objict I 
Jus' like dat Atom looks; 
I fired de gun and 't aint no lie, 
I runs like sixty, dat did I. 

"Arly in de mornin' 

Comes de massa dredful mad, 
For his bestes' Sunda' jacket 
Shot to pieces dat I hed. 

"But I doan quite see fru it, 

Fo' de fust thing dat he say, — 
'See, you crazy lump of ebonit. 

My bestes' coat ALL IN ATOMS 
LAY!' " 



THE LITERATURE OF THE 
SEA-BEACH 

(To my reader : I have not my dictionary at hand, but 
I take "Literature" as being the noun formed from the 
verb " to litter," and meaning " that which is strewn.") 

I SEE while strolling o'er the beach such 

sights 
As call forth memories of my books. 
The spider-crab a monster e'en me frights, 
What an ideal lago he looks! 
And by some chance near-by a toad-fish lies, 
To fancy quick the story flies 
That gnome of Notre-Dame conception 

gives, 
A homelier creature scarce there lives. 
Yet character from form is ne'er designed. 
And frightfully near my foot I find 
An old wax doll that moves and tries to rise ! 
Is Frankenstein before mine eyes? 
'T is but a frozen crab thrown on the strand, 
Near covered by the doll and sand. 
And waxing warm within his forced grave 
335 



336 Literature of the Sea-Beach 



In crabbed humor seeks escape. 

Some wave has broken in a sand-bank, too, 

And dollars lie in piles around ; 

If Holmes were only here to catch a clew, 

If all the proofs were not now drowned! 

And that? Why Harum must have been 

around ; 
The trade-winds have a sea-horse thrown 
In stormy weather on the eager ground. 
It lies as still now as a stone. 
And many more books might I lay indeed 
Upon the shelving beach, but I prefer 
That you, too, go and see what you can read. 
So go to sea, for there occur 
The objects bathed in mystery, and all 
Can tell a tale if you but read. 
Forgotten study, too, they may recall, 
All in their wise but silent creed. 
'T is why from frequent educating talks, 
I call my " Litter-at-your-Walks. " 



M 



LOGARITHMS 



Y lumbering mind can woo not thee, 
O m'.id of mighty mind, 



My efforts are decHned. 
My versing must entirely be 
To scan the light log-rhythms 

Of high holes' timfed beat. 



337 



ODE TO JOHN JONES . 

" JOHN JONES? Yeah, thet 's my name, 
*^ and uf the same 

I hev a son, a right smart un. 
Who 's allers writin' po'ms ; wal, I doan claim 
Ter know a nothin' 'bout sich things, but 
my son 
Wus called one day while writin' and I jist 

peeked 
Ter see what sort uf stuff it wus. What 

wus 't 
Yer say? Ha! Ha! 

But he 's my son, a right smart un. 

Wal, shinin' brightly frum thet paper top 
These wurds so full uf feelin' I hed ter stop 
An' shed a tear, the same I hev' nt done 
Since Dolly died. But, stranger, he 's my 

son. 
He writ "Ode to John Jones," thet 's me! 
you see, 
His father, me! I did n't read no more, 
338 



Ode to John Jones 339 

But saw the wurds "Hayseed" and "Pop," 

bless me 
He jist meant "crop," and "Hayseed 's" jist 

his farmin' lore. 

I tell yer, stranger, if all sons but knowed 
Jist all that they to their fathers ode, 
How happy men would be! And I'm so 
proud 

About thet son (sich a smart un) 
Thet seems I must jist tell it to the crowd. 

I hope when John hes got a son 
He too will 'predate what my son owns. 
The orful lot thet he "ode to John Jones." 

THE END. 



APR 2 1903 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



018 349 710 8 



